Behind the Curtain of Dusk
by Voice of the Nephilim
Summary: His fall was precipitous. From one of the brightest students to ever attend the University to the pariah hiding in a forgotten corner of war-torn Vintas, from Kvothe to Kote; this is how the story ends. Day Three of the Kingkiller Chronicle.
1. Prologue: A Silence of Three Parts

Prologue

_**A Silence of Three Parts**_

A NEW DAY WAS RISING. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was an immense, echoing quiet, made by the things that were lacking. If there had been a hurricane, winds and rain would have beaten upon the wooden slats of the inn, marching through the hollow spaces within. If there had been refugees huddled within the walls, the air would have been heavy with shrill laughter, of feet shuffling nervously upon the heavy planks which made up the floor, of the calm, reassuring tones of the innkeeper. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact, there were none of those things, so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone a man stood before the large hearth, staring into the unlit logs piled within. His contemplation was still, the only movement the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and the occasional blink of an eye. Each flicker made the barest _shick _as the eyelashes briefly collided. In doing this he added his small, dismal silence to the larger echoing one. They made a composite of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened hard enough you might feel it in the cold of the barren fireplace and the shutters drawn across the windows. It was in the panel of iron-black wood hanging above the bar, and the sword which was mounted to it. And it was in the hands of the man who stood before the soot-stained bricks, motionless, hands balled into tight fists.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he stood with the determined air of one who has recently reconciled with difficult truths.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, ensnaring the others within itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who was waiting to die.


	2. Chapter 1: Before the Dawn

Chapter One  
_**Before the Dawn**_

FAE ARE NOT HUMAN and we forget that at our own peril.

Kvothe's words filled the sleepless night, slowing time to a halt. Chronicler had thought the first night at the Waystone Inn bad, when despite barring the door with a heavy dresser, Bast had crept through the window and threatened him with fates worse than death. The promises to tear his throat out and visit endless agonies upon him kept sleep elusive, and stayed with him for the entire day. Its menace lay beneath every action, every word that Bast uttered.

Yet it was his most recent conversation with Kvothe's faen apprentice that weighed heaviest upon his mind.

Bast's fear of the Ctheah was crippling, blinding him to the truth of the matter. No matter how far a malignant entity can see into the future, it cannot control every choice that a person makes. Each person is born with free will, and chooses their own destiny. Chronicler had hoped that opening Bast's eyes to this fact would allow for him to have hope for Kvothe for again, to realize that the future was not etched in stone.

Instead, the apprentice's reaction had chilled him to the bone and driven away the promise of sleep.

"_If everything is going to end in tears anyway, I might as well do as I want."_

The full impact of the words had not struck him at first, but when he returned to his own room and undressed for bed, their open-ended meaning began to gnaw at his conscience. As a member of the human species, he had zero insight into the thought process of the fae, but the ominous nature of Kvothe's words stuck in his head. What had they meant to Bast?

The apprentice's final words before he had leapt from the inn window, crumpled cloak about his shoulder, bottle of wine tucked under his arms, had spoken of a fatalistic mindset. A selfish statement, adopted only when all hope was gone, all barriers of decency and humanity stripped away. The same logic applied to wanted thieves who murdered and raped with reckless abandon, to bankrupt nobles who continued to seek new lines of credit: If I am damned, then what matter the ruin of others?

In two days at the Waystone Inn, Bast had threatened to kill him multiple times, laying claim to his soul; when Chronicler had tried to bind him with iron, Bast would have tried to kill without Kvothe's interference; Bast had even admitted to leaking the location of Kvothe to several people, both friends and enemies.

If these were the sane, rational decisions of a person thinking about the future, how was Bast going to act now that nothing mattered?

A soft, but insistent knock upon the door startled Chronicler, driving away all thoughts of Bast.

"Y-yes, who's there?" he stammered, staring at the unlocked door. After having both locking the door and dragging a drawer in front of it had done little to improve the room's security, he had given up the idea of being left alone.

"A simple innkeeper," answered Kvothe in neutral tones, his voice muffled by the thick wood. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs. Hurry."

"What's going on?" Chronicler asked, his voice echoing throughout the empty room, but he received no answer. With a muttered curse he kicked off the sheets, and swung his body around, planting his feet on the floor. In the scant starlight streaming through the window he saw his clothes draped over the back of the chair. With a deep sigh, he rose from the bed and began to dress, nothing that occasions which drove people from bed before dawn were rarely a joyous occasion.

He had no reason to believe this morning would be any different.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Down the darkened staircase Chronicler descended, each light footstep drawing a creak from the wooden risers. He stumbled at the bottom, the floor coming sooner than anticipated, though he easily balanced himself.

The ground floor of the Waystone Inn was eerily quiet and shrouded in darkness. Behind the bar glass bottles polished to perfection gleamed faintly, but all else was dark. He started to take a step forward into the common room, before seeming to change his mind.

Chronicler reached to the leather cord around his neck, making a fist around it. He hesitated for a moment, as if carefully considering his next course of action. With a frown, he pulled the cord from the confines of his shirt, making a fist around the iron ring. A low mutter escaped his lips, and a pale green phosphorescence began to leak out from between his fingers. His fist opened, allowing the glowing ring to swing on its leather cord.

The faintly shining amulet illuminated a bar polished to a fine sheen, as well as the silhouettes of the common room's tables, chairs and stools. The bottles behind the bar turned to green liquid fire, the sword mounted above it gleamed like starlight, but of Kvothe there was no sign.

He turned to his right, to see that the front door was wide open. The dim light of the amulet failed to penetrate the gaping maw of darkness beyond the door. Sweat began to appear on the scribe's brow as he stared out into the darkness, trying to make some sense of it.

"Anyone there?" he whispered.

"Come on out," the innkeeper answered, his voice floating through the door. The reply caused Chronicler to jump slightly. He shook his head a single time, as if mentally reprimanding himself, before stepping through the open door.

Outside it was bright; far more so than the deep murk of the Waystone Inn suggested. A fat moon hung overhead, surrounded by an endless halo of stars. Moonlight lit the flagstone path upon which Kvothe stood, his back to the inn.

As the scribe approached, the innkeeper turned, his intent gaze focusing itself upon the lightly swaying amulet.

"Put it out," he said, the words spoken quietly, but with absolute authority. "It wouldn't be wise to attract unwanted attention."

Without complaint Chronicler broke the binding, extinguishing the light green glow. He placed the leather cord back around his neck, tucking the iron ring back beneath his shirt.

"It was dark inside there."

"No longer comfortable in the dark?" asked Kvothe, his grim expression softening a fraction.

"How could I be?" the scribe retorted, clearly frustrated. "Scrael, skin-walkers…no, these past few days, I've lost my trust in the shadows."

"Knowledge often holds a heavy price," Kvothe pointed out wearily, the lines in his face seeming to deepen as he spoke. His eyes were ancient, speaking of a man who had fought a losing battle his entire life. "Yet perhaps it's fortunate that you know the truth."

His words hanging heavily in the air, Kvothe turned back towards the road. As he moved, the moonlight caught the iron cudgel clutched in his right hand. Chronicler's gaze was attracted by the gleam, his expression wary.

"Are you expecting trouble tonight?"

"People rarely venture out to find trouble, but only a fool travels unprepared in these turbulent times."

When the words faded away, Kvothe began to walk towards the road, his stride long. Less than assured, Chronicler followed, quickening his pace to catch up. He spared a single glance to the smithy, a low, squat building across the road from the inn, before catching up to Kvothe, matching his strides. They made a steady march down the dirt road. Stirred by a faint wind, the trees swayed softly, their leaves rustling.

"Where are we going?" asked Chronicler, breaking the heavy silence. A few moments passed without a reply, leaving the scribe to wonder if Kvothe had heard him. Pondering whether or not to ask again, the innkeeper answered.

"I don't believe I've been fair to you. There are things that I should have informed you of before agreeing to part with my story, but didn't."

As Kvothe spoke, he turned off the road. Barely visible between the thick copse of trees was a narrow, overgrown road. It had been washed out several times by flooding, its uneven surface pockmarked with stones. Dense foliage closed in on either side of the neglected path, leaving scarcely enough room for two people to walk side-by-side.

"I hope you did not wake me this early just to tell me you've changed you mind," said Chronicler with a tremor of unease.

Kvothe was silent for a moment, before letting out a slight chuckle. "Of course you wouldn't remember this place," he said, more to himself than his companion, before turning his head. "Rest assured, three days I promised you and three days you will receive. Certainly, I could have talked to you back at the inn…but my point is better illustrated than explained."

The path wound to the left, before widening out to an overgrown clearing. Rubble and stone debris littered the ground, weeds poking up between them. In the center two stone walls leaned drunkenly against one another, forming a corner. A shovel leaned against one of the walls, clumps of dried mud clinging to its blade.

"I know it looks different without a bonfire burning, but this was the place where you found me, three night ago."

"You carried me all the way back to the Waystone?" asked Chronicler, looking around the clearing in wonder.

"It was either that or leave you here, which I was not inclined to do, for obvious reasons."

Softly, the scribe thanked him again, before his gaze wandered to the section of packed earth in the center of the ruins.

"Until I saw the bonfire burning from the road, my two biggest fears were finding a place to lay my head down, and running afoul of more defected soldiers. Tonight, though…this entire time, I haven't spared a second of thought for bandits."

Kvothe let out a humorless grin. "A single peek behind the curtain can change your entire perspective of the world."

Leaning the cudgel against the wall, he took up the shovel and thrust it into the earth, hammering the blade down further with a stomp. He upturned gathered dirt, before digging down again.

"Is that wise?" asked Chronicler, eyes darting around the clearing.

"In matters such as these, it's hard to be sure," Kvothe answered, shoveling out a second scoop of dirt. Once down, he leaned the tool back against the wall, before lowering himself to his knees. He reached into the hole and withdrew a handful of black char and dust. Turning towards the scribe, he opened his hand, displaying its contents, before letting the ashes fall to the ground.

"The night before you arrived, one of the scrael attacked a local farmer. By virtue of pure luck, Carter survived. His horse was not as fortunate, but when it fell, it landed upon the scrael, killing it. Dazed, Carter brought the body back to the Waystone, not knowing what else to do. The local Tehlin priest decreed it should be dealt with in the same way Tehlu destroyed Encannis."

Kvothe's gaze find the scribe's, as if urging him to speak up. Like an obedient pupil, Chronicler did, quoting the 'Book of the Path'.

"One shall not suffer a demon. Lest they rise again, they must be placed within a hole containing a fire built up from the wood of the rowan."

The innkeeper nodded. "The scrael do not travel independently, suggesting that the one which attacked Carter must have been separated from the horde. The townspeople of Newarre wouldn't have a chance against a legion of scrael, so I took it upon myself to deal with them. Before the first was burned, I took one of its legs with me, using it to draw the rest of the scrael to me. As I said when we first met; you must have saved up all your bad luck for that night."

"And yet you maintain that you're still a simple innkeeper," observed Chronicler, shaking his head. "You might have saved the entire town with nothing more than a cudgel."

"I had surprise on my side, not to mention a weapon they were vulnerable to, and I still nearly died." With a blackened hand, Kvothe pulled the collar of shirt to the right, revealing a jagged pink scab on the place where his shoulder and neck met. "If they had struck two inches to the left, the story of Kote the mediocre innkeeper would have come to a merciful end. That, however, is not why I brought you out here."

Kvothe fell silent for a moment, fishing for the right words to being with.

"The Tehlins say that demons fear three things: Cold iron, clean fire and the holy name of God. I can only vouch for the first two. Upon contact with iron, the black body of the scrael burns and crackles, even when dead. The bonfire you saw was built with high with rowan; a clean fire. After it burned through the scrael, only ashes remained."

"Will the ashes attract other scrael?"

Kvothe started to shake his head, before the gesture turned into a shrug.

"Probably not. The fire should destroy every last bit of grammarie still clinging to their bodies, but I'm no expert on the subject."

Chronicler sent an incredulous look at Kvothe, but said nothing. The innkeeper let out a snort of bitter laughter in response.

"The scrael have no mouths, no eyes and no internal organs. Yet somehow they have made it all the way to Newarre. I'm not speaking as an authority on the subject, but by elimination, I'd say it likely that enchantments are the only thing keeping them alive."

"They…they have no organs?" asked the scribe, prompting Kvothe to nod. "So…who brought them to life?"

The innkeeper let out a deep sigh. "Someone who very much wants me dead."

"Most people already think you're dead."

"They're not entirely wrong, but nonetheless; not everyone believed the stories. Do you think it's a coincidence that both the scrael and a skin-dancer have appeared here in the past week?"

"No," replied Chronicler after a moment's pause. "But…who did you piss off?"

"Which brings me to my ultimate point: I opened the Waystone Inn one year ago, and since then I have had zero contact with the outside world. Despite the fact that Kvothe the Bloodless is dead and buried, it would appear that my location has been compromised. I fear my time in Newarre had drawn to a close."

"You'd just leave everything you've made here, all you've established?"

"What other choice do I have?!" exclaimed Kvothe, throwing his hands in the air. "The scrael almost got the better of me, and Aaron's strong swing was the only thing that prevented the skin-dancer from killing me too. Should I wait around to see what finds its way here next?! To let more townspeople die? Because I certainly can't do a blackened thing about it!"

Kvothe's voice rose with each passing word, causing Chronicler to take an unconscious step back. His tones spoke not of anger, but the soul-deep despair of the condemned. The innkeeper drew in a shaky breath, seeming to regret his outburst.

"I'm no hero, Devan, but you're free to publish your book. Many will read it, some might even enjoy it, but you need to know: When I disappear again, they're going to go after the person who last saw Kvothe the Arcane. To the public, that's going to be you."

The scribe in froze in the midst of a reply, his mouth hanging open.

"It might be a week, or maybe even as long as a year, but as sure as the sun rises in the east – an eye will fall upon you, and you will have no more peace."

"…But I wouldn't know where you went," Chronicler pointed out, still dazed from Kvothe's words.

"Why should that matter? Even assuming you held no interest to them, how happy will the King be once the true story of his reign sees the light of day? Or how about the Tehlins? Any Justice you run across will not look kindly upon your writings."

"It doesn't matter," replied Chronicler, shaking his head. "Your story needs to be told."

Kvothe shook his head, before turning his gaze to the mass grave of the scrael.

"The scrael were able to track me here from the other side of the Stormwal Mountains. It's one thing to face their menace beneath the roof of the Waystone, flames burning in the fireplace, but in these ruins, beneath the night sky…"

"I know what I'm getting into," Chronicler promised.

"No you don't," replied Kvothe with a deep sigh, beginning to shovel the black char back into the hole. "But you will."

X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes:

Well, here it is, the first of two Waystone chapters before Kvothe's story resumes. Despite my best efforts, the skill of my writing is definitely not equal to Rothfuss'. I am, however, confident in my plotting, so hopefully that facet is strong enough to maintain people's interest.

Next chapter should be up in a week or so. I'm going to aim for one update per week, though I may fall behind quickly. With the heavy revision required by these chapters, they are time consuming to produce.

I would have been lost without the guidance of several people, who managed to salvage my flailing first attempts. Thanks are in order to The DarIm, rand32085, Taure and T3t.

I do hope you enjoyed the chapter, but love it or hate, feel free to let me know either way. I respond to all reviews I receive, and appreciate any and all feedback.

DLP Thanks:

Swimdraconian, Andro, bombdiggity92, Greener, Death Pimp, Sol, Silverlasso, Danisama, Mutton, Xantam,


	3. Chapter 2: To the Bitter End

Chapter Two  
_**To the Bitter End**_

BY THE TIME THEY made it back to the Waystone Inn, the sun had begun its ascent up the eastern skyline, its rays peering over the tree line. Kvothe pushed the door open, closely followed by Chronicler. Through the large bay windows streamed sunlight, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room.

"Please, think about what I've said," urged Kvothe, turning to the scribe. "Fame, women, free drinks, lucrative book royalties; none of it will be worth a single bent shim if the wrong sort catch up to you."

"My decision is made," Chronicler said firmly. The innkeeper nodded a single time, to himself more than anyone else, before turning and walking out of the common room, into the kitchen. Chronicler followed, to see him wash his hands with brisk efficiency, scrubbing both the tops and bottoms with a thinning stub of white soap.

"Well, I've done my part," said Kvothe, drying his hands on a nearby towel hanging on a hook. "At least your poor decision is an informed decision."

His hands dry, he turned to the counter, removing the lids from three small wooden boxes. From the containers he withdrew flour, sugar and salt, combining the three ingredients without measurement.

"Do you need a hand down here?" Chronicler asked, before letting out a loud, jaw-breaking yawn. Kvothe's grim, intent expression cracked a fraction, revealing a small smile.

"I'm all set down here. Look, I know it's been a long few days for you, and our early morning jaunt probably didn't help. Why don't you go back upstairs and snatch a few hours of sleep?"

Chronicler considered the offer for a moment, watching as the innkeeper drew a piece of starter from a clay jar within the pantry, and then adding it to the dough.

"I promise to wake you up before I start the story again, if that helps to make up your mind," the innkeeper added, before kneading the pale yellow mass.

"Hugely," admitted Chronicler, before stretching his arms wide.

"Then get upstairs, you're interrupting my routine," Kvothe chastised, before beginning to round the dough into loaves.

The scribe thanked Kvothe, before exiting the kitchen and making his way up the stairs. His movements were sluggish, one hand held firmly upon the banister, supporting each step.

He gained the top of the stairs with a sigh of relief, only a few feet from the door to his room.

A door at the end of the hall creaked open, stopping Chronicler in his tracks. The tips of soft, black leather boots protruded from the room's threshold, before their owner walked out. Bast stopped in his tracks upon catching sight of Chronicler. With a liquid nonchalance he reached behind him, closing the door to his room without breaking eye contact.

"Fancy seeing you up this early," he said with wide, maniacal grin. "Though I wonder why you bothered. You look like you could catch a few winks."

"Kvothe said the same thing," admitted Chronicler, watching Bast with wary eyes. The faen looked as if he'd slept all night, with not a single dark hair out of place. "You look refreshed. I suppose last night's errand didn't take very long."

"No, it was a simple manner," Bast said, wearing a sly smile that would send children running. "I do wonder, though; why did Reshi wake you up at such an early hour?"

"He urged me to leave, to abandon his story."

Chronicler's voice was strong as he spoke, his back straight, but still he took an involuntary step backwards, as if expecting the innkeeper's apprentice to rush him. Bast did no such thing, instead opting to walk slowly towards the scribe, like a stalking cat.

"Oh, did he?" the faen asked, moving closer. It may have been Chronicler's imagination, but the whites of his corneas seemed to darken to a shade of ivory.

"I refused," hissed Chronicler, taking another step in retreat. Without warning the wall pressed up against the scribe's back, nearly causing him to scream.

"Are you sure?"

"How could I have?" the scribe asked, throwing his hands in the air. "Even if I wanted to pass up the story of a lifetime, how far would I have to run to escape your wrath?"

"Further than you can imagine," answered Bast, his ivory corneas tinted with vaguest suggestion of blue.. He took one final hard stare at Chronicler, before backing up a step. "Luckily, you chose the right answer. Pleasant dreams, manling."

Without a look back Bast walked down the stairs, disappearing from sight. Soft whispers of movement marked his descent down the steps, before the sound faded away. Chronicler let out a breath of relief, before going to his room. Closing the door behind him, he braced it with his back. Eyes closed, he bowed his head, breathing a sigh of relief.

Chronicler turned his head to the left, towards the dresser, as if considering moving it.

"Why bother?" he wearily muttered beneath his breath. Like an old man he made his way over to the bed, sitting upon it. He rubbed his hands over his face in a universal show of exhaustion, before reaching down to remove his boots. Once his feet were freed, he began to unbutton his shirt, before giving up. Chronicler laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his face weary, all prospects of a quick nap forgotten.

X-X-X-X-X-X

The rear of the Waystone Inn was shrouded by trees, casting the yard into shadow. Against the far fence, which was little more than a latticed frame of ivy-wreathed wood, stood a large, misshapen mass twenty feet long, five feet all, covered by a thick beige cloth. Spare lengths of timber weighed down the cover, protecting it from being ripped away by the wind.

Kvothe, an axe slung over one shoulder, picked up one of the weights and pulled back the cover, revealing several columns of neatly stacked logs. He took a log off the top of the pile, braced it against the steel blade of the axe and brought it down. The bottom of the wood collided with the large stump sticking out of the ground, driving the axe into the log. Lodged into the blade, the log followed the axe when Kvothe hefted the shaft back up. With a grunt, he swung it back against the flat of the stump, splitting a length of kindling from the log. He swept away the piece of kindling to the side, before beginning the process again.

Four logs and a pint of sweat later saw Kvothe build up a respectable pile of kindling. Taking a moment to breathe, he upturned the axe and crossed his arms over the flat of the shaft, resting.

The sudden sound of the Waystone's front door creaking open met Kvothe's ears. He rose at once, the shaft of the axe clasped in his right hand. It was far too early for patronage; Newarre was a farming town, which meant its residents were already working as the sun rose. Body tense, Kvothe walked through the back door, into the kitchen. The sweet smell of baking bread filled the air as he stood outside the common room entry, listening.

Hearing nothing of note, Kvothe set the axe against the inner wall of the kitchen, out of sight. He adopted an expression of casual, polite interest, before pushing the door open.

A slim-figured brunette stood in front of the bar, hair tied back into a messy ponytail, standing on her tiptoes to look over it, as if Kvothe were lying passed out behind it.

"Good morning," he greeted, causing the girl to turn towards him. She was younger than Kvothe originally thought, perhaps fourteen. Light freckles spotted her nose and cheeks. A large brown coat, too large for her petite frame, hung down to middle of her thighs, where brown breeches were tucked into knee-high riding boots.

"I don't believe we've met before," he said, performing a tiny, polite bow. "I am Kote, the owner of this humble establishment."

His introduction won him a small smile, lighting up her neutral expression.

"My mother named me Calista, but everyone calls me Callie," she explained, before curtseying using an invisible skirt.

"In that case, I shall too. So, Callie; what can I do for you today? I don't have anything ready, but I could come up with something in a few minutes if it's breakfast you're after."

"No, that's okay," she replied, sending her hair aflutter as she shook her head. "I can't stay long anyway, no one knows I'm gone."

Callie dropped her dark-eyed gaze to the floor without warning. For the briefest of moments her grief was laid bare, speaking to Kvothe of an all-too-familiar ache.

"I am sincerely sorry for your loss," Kvothe said quietly, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder through the quick coat that Shep used to wear on the colder autumn days. "Your father was a good man. I haven't been in Newarre long, but no one ever spoke poorly of him."

Callie's breath hitched as his words. She looked down again, wiping a thick sleeve across her face. In a swift movement Kvothe produced a handkerchief from a back pocket, but the teenager shook her head, stepping back a step. Her eyes were red from weeping, but her gaze was level, in control.

"That's what everyone says…but if that's so, why did the sweet-eater go after him?"

"Your father was the bravest of us all," Kvothe said gently. "That's why the sweet-eater went after him."

Rather than being comforted, the teenager's eyes narrowed. "I saw the man who killed my dad, down at the church. He was a highwayman, wasn't he? One of the King's?"

"At one time, I believe he was," answered Kvothe, after a brief silence.

"My mom thought the same thing when him and his men found our land," Callie bitterly spat. "Maybe even an officer. They took all our money, our salt, dried meat, dried fruit and blankets. If my dad was home, they would've taken our horses too."

She gaze was defiant, as if daring Kvothe to speak up.

"I…I'm sorry. There was a rumor that something bad happened out on the farm a few nights ago, but your father never spoke of it."

Callie snorted. "Of course he didn't. What man wants to admit he was out while his family was being held up by highwaymen? Anyway, two of the men…they wanted…"

She trailed off for a moment, looking down at the floor, before letting out a deep sigh.

"Well, The leader wasn't having any of it. Said we're not taking anything they can't eventually replace. He was calm, never raised his voice, never threatened us. What he took…it was like it wasn't ours, but stuff they found on the side of the road. We just had the bad luck to be the last place on the way out of Newarre."

"One of our guests ran into them on his way here," Kvothe offered. "Said the leader was genteel, as far as highwaymen went. Probably a low-ranking officer."

"Maybe he was," Callie said, "But I know the one he wasn't: a sweet-eater. He was too calm, too in control, and I don't think he became an addict in three days. So why don't you tell me what really happened to my father, Kote?"

Kvothe fell quiet. After a moment Callie's jaw clenched, while her gaze hardened.

"I want to know what happened to my father!" she hissed in anger, slapping her hand down upon the polished bar.

"You deserve to know the truth," Kvothe admitted, pulling a stool away from the bar and motioning towards it. "Please, have a seat."

Callie eyed the stool with mistrust, but nonetheless lowered herself into it. Her body posture remained rigid as she fixed a red-hot glare upon Kvothe.

"So? What really happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure," admitted Kvothe, taking the seat next to hers. "But you're right on one account; your father's killer was not a denner addict."

"Then why did you tell us he was?!" she demanded with an accusatory glare.

"Callie, if we told you your father was killed by one of the Chandrian, would you believe me?"

The teenager's eyes widened for a moment, before hardening in rage. "Is this a joke to you?!"

"No, of course not. I just wish to illustrate a point. Everyone knows that the Chandrian are just a fairy tale. If we had said such as much to the constable, he would have thought we were either lying or insane."

His explanation softened her intent glare, her head cocking slightly to the right.

"So…you said he was a sweet-eater because people wouldn't believe the truth?" At Kvothe's grim nod, she continued. "So what really happened?"

"The eight of us were sitting around the inn when the leader stumbled in. His clothes were dirty and ripped, and he didn't seem to know where he was. Devan, one of my guests, recognized him as the man who had robbed him. When confronted, the mercenary began to talk in an unfamiliar language."

"He spoke the Common Tongue fine at our farm."

"I've been to each of the Four Corners, and beyond, but I've never heard anything like it," admitted Kvothe. "Devan then drew the mercenary's sword, and tried to get his things back. The man grasped the blade like it was nothing. Even when Devan took a chunk out of his arm, he acted like nothing was wrong."

Callie's eyes had grown large, clearly absorbed by the story.

"Bast, my apprentice, was the first to react. He tried knocking the man out by slamming his head against the bar, but he was thrown off as if he weighed nothing…"

Kvothe trailed off. He opened his mouth for a fraction of a moment, only to close it again.

"Please, go on," Callie urged. "No matter how bad it was…I need to know the truth. You at least owe me that."

"Shep – your father – was the next to react. He took a knife and buried it deep in the mercenary's neck. He didn't seem to notice the blade, but he noticed your father, and went after him with the sword."

Callie's head slumped towards the bar, her face covered by her hands. One, two, three violent shudders wracked her frame.

"Callie – I'm so sorry," apologized Kvothe.

She pushed herself off the bar, shaking her head. "It-it's my fault, I…I needed to know. I…it's…"

As she trailed off into silence, Kvothe once again produced a handkerchief. This time Callie opted to take it, using the embroidered cloth to dab at the tear tracks on her face.

"You're a very strong young woman, Callie. I'm impressed that you made it down here. Not many people could have even functioned in this state."

She shook her head. "Just because I lost my father, it doesn't mean you have to patronize me. So if the knife didn't kill the mercenary, how'd you do it."

"I'm not just humoring you, Callie, but speaking from personal experience. As for the leader…Aaron, the smith's apprentice, attacked with an iron rod. Unlike the knife, the man seemed to feel the rod."

Callie was silent for a moment, her gaze wary, uncertain.

"So what was so important about the rod? Why did he feel that, and not the knife?"

"It was an iron rod, Callie."

The confusion departed at once, to be replaced by an expression of incredulity. "Are you trying to say that a demon killed him?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort. Maybe the mercenary was a sweet-eater. I know a lot about languages, but maybe he's from an obscure section of the Four Corners."

"Do you really believe that?" questioned Callie. After a moment of thought Kvothe shook his head, letting out a weary sigh.

"No. If there is one thing I am certain of, the mercenary was no sweet-eater. However, I hope you understand why we said that he was."

"Because if you said he was a demon, no one would believe you."

"Exactly. Whatever he was, though, he's gone. He's not going to hurt anyone else in your family."

If Kvothe expected his words to have any import upon the young woman, her expression of dismay proved otherwise.

"What if the rest of them come back?" she whispered, fear in her voice. "The leader was the only one keeping them in line."

"I don't think they'll be back," disagreed Kvothe, but Callie was not convinced.

"How can you say that?" she demanded, rising from the stool. "You even said you're not sure what's going on."

"I'm not going to let that happen," assured Kvothe, locking gazes with the young teenager.

"How can you promise that?" she whispered, not daring to hope, but wanting to.

"Because I can," Kvothe explained, his expression girm. I have to make a few preparations first, but if you come back this afternoon, I'll have something that will keep them away."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

X-X-X-X-X-X

After the young teenager left the Waystone, Kvothe resumed his morning routine. The cut kindling found its way the bin in the back room, and he punched down the slowly rising breads with balled fists, forcing the air out. He then shaped the dough into round shapes, before placing them close to the warming iron stove.

The innkeeper took the time to wash the off the film clinging to his hands, before wiping them on his apron. As he hung the stained-white apron back upon the proper nail, the basement door opened. Bast emerged from beyond the darkened threshold, cradling a large bundle of roots and vegetables perilously against his chest. In a single movement he rolled the contents of his arms onto the nearest counter, all without looking at the surface.

"Reshi, what were you thinking?!" he demanded, his wide-eyed gaze fixed uncomprehendingly upon the innkeeper.

Appearing to be nonplussed by his apprentice, Kvothe began to study the assortment of vegetables scattered across the counter.

"I see carrots, celery, onions, potatoes…but no beets. Did you forget to bring some up?"

"Forget about the soup!" yelled Bast. "Do you realize what you've done?"

The innkeeper's head shot up at the statement, his features drawn tightly in anger.

"Yes, Bast, I have an exceptionally clear idea of what I've done," spat Kvothe. His tone was clipped, coming in short bursts. "I have provided closure to a Shep's grieving daughter, given her hope to assuage very realistic fears and have revealed nothing regarding our true identities. Does that cover it all, or have I left something out?"

Bast gave the innkeeper a long, searching look, before shaking his head. "I understand that she deserved the truth, Reshi…but that's two people in Newarre that we've spoken too regarding demons. How long until Aaron and the girl begin to talk to others? How long until they start to take a closer look at us? Especially if they find out what you plan to give that girl."

"And what am I going to give her?"

The question was quiet, spoken calmly, but Bast recoiled from the question, like the words were contagious.

"…I don't even want to think about it."

"Nor would I expect you to, but nonetheless, we can't ignore the fact that in less than a week, we've been visited by both the scrael, and a skin-walker. We can't look at a pattern and pass it off as coincidence. If they found us, how far behind can the others be?"

"If there even are any others," Bast muttered under his breath.

"I am certain of it, especially after talking with Callie."

The faen blew out a frustrated breath. "I can't believe you're taking her that seriously."

"We'd be foolish not, being so close to the problem. We think that the thing which took over the mercenary was a skin-dancer…but what if we're wrong? You said that skin-dancers typically jump from body-to-body until everyone is dead. Why didn't that happened to us?"

Bast let out an unconvinced shrug. "I don't even know that much about the Mael. I might have it wrong. Maybe that dreadful iron the smith's apprentice held was enough to kill it."

"Perhaps, Bast, perhaps…but we also cannot ignore the possibility that the other highwaymen may have been possessed."

"The mercenary's sword was spotted with dried blood, Reshi! You saw it! The leader carved up his fellow thieves, before moving onto us. End of the story."

"Is it?" questioned Kvothe. "In that case, you have an explanation for how, in the space of two days, the leader's sword rusted all the way through?"

"No, but…" Bast trailed off as his eyes widened, finally grasping the implications of the innkeeper's question. "No! Don't say it! Don't even _think _it!"

"How could I not?"

"I don't care!" exclaimed Bast, slapping an open palm down on the counter. "Play with your nasty iron trinkets, expose your true identity to every person who walks through the front door, make soup with your wretched beets; just don't think about _that_!"

The lines around his eyes pronounced with fatigue, Kvothe nodded a single time.

"Fair enough, Bast. Maybe I am becoming overly paranoid. How about you grab a few beets from the basement, and we start on the soup?"

"Okay," he agreed, his expression brightening. Bast walked back to the open door, before turning around one last time. "I know it looks bad, Reshi…but everything is going to work out. Just you wait and see."

Kvothe let out a pained smile. "Perhaps you're right."

"Of course I am," the apprentice agreed, before taking off down the stairs. Once Bast left the kitchen, the innkeeper's thin smile vanished. With a heavy sigh, one which spoke of hopelessness, Kvothe began to rinse the vegetables with water.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Familiar silence reigned over the Common Room, punctuated only by the subtle friction of cloth against glass. The innkeeper went quietly about his business, taking each bottle down and polishing it with a rag. There was a gap in the procession of bottles, like a missing tooth in a bright smile. From the right side of the row he removed a crimson bottle, using it to fill the gap.

Once finished with polishing the bottles, Kvothe set the rag down on the bar, before stretching his arms wide. A wince crossed his face as he did, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. After the hiss escaped his lips, he began to hear a distant thudding from outside the inn.

"Do you hear that?" he asked Bast, before moving closer to the door. His apprentice, who sat at a table working on another garland of holly, looked up from his work.

"It sounds like horses," he said, throwing a glance towards the door. Sure enough, a few seconds later Kvothe heard the steady rhythm of hooves pounding upon hard-packed earth, the sound growing closer with every second.

"It would appear we have guests," the innkeeper said to his seated apprentice. Bast raised his head from his woven boughs of holly.

"And I suppose you want me to attend to them?"

"As my dutiful apprentice, of course," Kvothe confirmed. "I, of course, will safely hide your work, as to not shatter this thin veneer of normalcy we've created."

With a grin, Bast rose from the table. A spring in his step, he exited the common room, closing the door softly behind him. The innkeeper moved swiftly, stowing the holly branches beneath the bar, and wiping said table clean. As he transferred the rag to his pocket, the front door opened again.

"Good morning to you, Master Kote," greeted Austin Orrison as he walked in, rubbing his red, gnarled hands together. "Would you happen to have a few bites of breakfast for us hungry travelers?"

The innkeeper pretended to think about it, furrowing his brow. "I suppose I could find something," he said slowly, almost begrudgingly.

Austin broke in a wide grin. From beneath a wide-brimmed hat, the remaining strands of his straw-colored hair flapped in the light breeze. "Good to hear, son!" he declared, before turning around. "You hear that, kids? Master Kote was able to fit us in for a hot meal."

"Well, wait a minute – who said anything about a hot meal?" questioned the innkeeper. "I have a nice, big pot of gruel out back, but that's it."

"Gruel!" exclaimed the teenage boy who followed his father through the threshold, a look of undignified shock flitting across his face as he stopped in his tracks. A girl a few years younger followed on his heels, glaring at the back of the boy's head.

"Yes Cody, gruel," she said with a roll of her eyes. She let out a derisive snort before pushing past her brother, to the table where Austin was seating himself, draping a heavy coat over the back of a chair. "You can be so _stupid_ sometimes!"

"That's enough of that, Leanne," Austin half-heartedly chastised, before taking off his hat. He set it under his chair, before turning to the innkeeper. "If you don't mind, I have the smith's apprentice with me, as well as a fellow I hired in Treya."

"No, not at all," assured the innkeeper.. "There is more than enough gruel for everybody."

"Come on, Kote!" exclaimed Leanne in exasperated tones. "We already know that…"

The young teenager trailed off as Bast entered the Waystone. Kvothe's apprentice flashed the girl a smile, before ducking into the kitchen.

"What was that you were saying, Lee?" her older brother teased, his hazel eyes alight with glee. "You kinda just trailed off there."

Leanne, who had been trailing Bast's progress with her eyes, hastily broke off her inspection, her cheeks filling with an embarrassed scarlet. Cody broke into peals of laughter, slapping a hand upon the table, while their father fought to conceal his own smile.

"Well, for you three, maybe I can check the kitchen," said Kote with a sly smile. "Maybe there's something back there I can thicken the gruel with." His grin only grew wider at the twin groans from the two kids. "In the meantime, Austin – can I interest you in a pint of ale, and perhaps a cider apiece for the two young ones."

"I want ale too!" exclaimed Cody, looking to his father, who shook his head at once.

"Two ciders and an ale would be a fine start."

Before the shepherd's enthusiastic answer was even given, the innkeeper was in motion. Three tankards found their way onto the bar, one which Kote filled with ale. Bast came out of the kitchen with the jug of cider, and topped off the other two mugs. The innkeeper brought all three over to the Orrisons, setting them down on the table.

"Bless you, son," thanked Austin, raising the mug in the air before taking a deep swallow. His smile fading a note, Kote retreated to the kitchen to throw together a hasty breakfast. Laughter and chatter filled the Waystone as the innkeeper quickly cracked eggs and greased a frying pan. Pleasant smells wafted from the kitchen, filling the common room.

Kote emerged a few minutes later, bearing wide plates with tomato and cheese omelets, served with hashed potatoes. As he set the steaming platters down, the front door opened again.

A man in a vest of boiled leather, worn over a shirt of heavy metal rings, filled the doorway, grey, watery eyes surveying the scene.

"Welcome to the Waystone Inn," greeted Kote. "You're just in time for breakfast."

The large sellsword turned his weathered, heavily lined face towards Kvothe as he moved forward. His wild, iron-gray hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, tied with a piece of rawhide. "Not so much 'ungry, but if you've got a splash of brown beer, I'd take that, and a room for the day."

"Most certainly," answered Kote, moving back to the bar.

"I'll take one too," added Aaron, bringing up the rear. He closed the door behind him, before taking a seat at the table with the Orrisons. "And one of those omelets, if there's any left."

The innkeeper drew two beers from a wooden keg behind the bar. He took one of the mugs, as well as another omelet, over to the smith apprentice, who took both with an enthusiastic word of thanks. The sellsword, still standing, took his mug with a slight nod, before draining it in a single gulp and setting it back on the bar. An unpleasant aroma of tobacco and sweat clung to man.

"What do you want for the room?" he asked in a hoarse tone that spoke of a life-long smoker.

"Three coppers sounds fair to me."

"Aye," grunted the man, beginning to reach for his purse, but Kvothe waived him off.

"Looks like you've had a long night of traveling. Why don't you catch a few hours of sleep first?"

"Think I will," he said gruffly, before holding out a scarred hand the size of an anvil. "Name's Herst, and I 'preciate the offer."

"Kote," replied the innkeeper, shaking the mercenary's hand. Without further comment, the mercenary turned around and moved towards the stairs, the scabbard of his broadsword trailing behind him.

"A decent sort, for a hired sword," observed Austin between bites of his omelet. "Not much for words, but he came with a good reputation. Not many of them left in the Four Corners that you can trust halfway, so I suppose we got lucky finding him."

"I'll admit, I was surprised to see you back already," said Kvothe. "It's a long way to Treya."

"Well…we had a good day at the market – a real good day. Word of that type travels quickly, so we thought maybe it'd be better to take to the road before anybody got any ideas. With Carter taking the king's coin and all, we were short a capable man. After all, if you're traveling the roads at night-"

"Best have someone who can fight," Cody finished with a grin, before turning his attention back to his food.

"Right you are. So, we found Herst, and he agreed to come back with us. He charged a steep fee, but with what happened to that scribe, I can't complain. Looks like you had a spot of trouble yourself," pointed out Austin, to the purple bruise on the side of Kote's jaw.

The innkeeper saw Bast's eyes darken, but he kept his voice level and his smile loose. "A few of the king's men stopped by here last night and saw to it personally."

"That's a damn shame," mourned Austin with a shake of his head. "It's enough to make you wonder why we bother paying taxes in the first place, if the kingsmen can just take what they want."

Aaron raised his head from his meal to look at the innkeeper. "They…they did that?"

Kote nodded. "They claimed that all they had was a golden royal. When I offered to provide change the two soldiers decided they weren't paying for their meals, and that they'd help themselves to my purse. I foolishly decided to fight them."

"Blackened jackals, each and every one of them," spat the beefy shepherd, before leveling a thick finger at the smith's apprentice. "They feed on the weak, boy. If anyone else from town had been here, they wouldn't have said a peep. Hell, if it was jus' one of them soldier's, Kote probably would have thrown them out on their asses."

"I don't know about that," the innkeeper said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yes you do," spoke Bast, before turning to the shepherd. "Master Kote doesn't like to admit it, but he can scrap with the best of them. Didn't you have both of them stunned at one point?"

The innkeeper shot a dark look in Bast's direction, before letting out a heavy sigh.

"I suppose, but what does it matter? I didn't close the deal, and now I hurt in places I didn't even know existed."

"One unarmed man against two soldiers?!" exclaimed Austin, before hunching tighter to the table, his gaze fixed upon the innkeeper. "You should be proud of the fact that you're walking around today, boy. Men – no, animals like that? They don't take kindly to resistance. Reason they didn't stomp you into the ground is 'cause they didn't want to risk being surprised."

"He's right," echoed Bast as he moved towards the table, clearing the empty plates from it.

"Perhaps," the innkeeper said slowly, as if wanting to be convinced. Shrugging, he turned back to Austin. "I don't see Carter with you. Did he take the King's coin?"

"Yep, and it's a damn shame, if you ask me. It's tough times when a man has to take up the sword just to make ends meet." Austin shifted his gaze to the smith's apprentice. "Let me tell you, I was relieved when you decided against it."

Aaron went to bow his head, hiding it, but Austin rose from his seat, giving a hearty slap on the back to the smith's apprentice.

"No reason to hang your head, boy. This war is a foolish business, and less we see of it here in Newarre, the better off everyone is."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," replied Aaron slowly.

"Of course I'm right," agreed the shepherd, before turning to his kids. "You two, finish up your cider, we've got to get going. Quickly, now."

Leanne took one last gulp from her mug, before setting it down and joining her brother in standing. She took one final glimpse at Bast, sending the apprentice a small, secret smile. Both of children thanked Kote and said their goodbyes, before filing out the door. Bast followed them soon after, to tend to the horses. Their father hung back, waiting until his children were out of earshot before turning to Aaron.

"Would you mind hanging out front for a moment, boy? I'd like to have a private word with Master Kote here."

"Oh, uh, sure," agreed the apprentice, draining the last of his brown beer. "I have to get back to the smithy anyway."

"Actually, Aaron, would you mind coming back in after? I've got something I need from Caleb, and would be appreciative if you can pass it on."

"Sure, no problem," he agreed, before leaving his seat and exiting the common room. Once the door closed behind him, the shepherd turned towards Kvothe. A few moments of silence reigned before he found the words to begin, though even when they did come, Austin's words were slow, as if every syllable was an effort.

"You're a good man, Kote, ain't no one in this town going to deny that. You've been good for Newarre…but you can't let this happen again."

"I'm not sure I follow you," replied the innkeeper, his expression neutral.

"Aw, hell, I aint no good at this," Austin said, scuffing the toe of his boot on the floor. "Look, my point is, it doesn't matter how much of a scrapper you are. The kingsmen have a pipeline, and an innkeeper that's beaten once, is going to be beaten again. You have to defend yourself."

"I tried; it didn't end well."

"You tried the honorable, fair way, but jackals don't deserve that. They should be taken down like you would any other wild animal and even a kingsman can't do much when an arrow is streaking at him."

"I don't know," Kote said slowly.

"Look, it's your choice," admitted Austin, "But a man has to defend what's his. Just keep it in mind, that's all."

The shepherd placed his hat back upon his balding pate. He favored Kote with one final nod, before taking his leave of the Waystone. A minute later, Aaron came back in, joining Kote at the bar.

"So, what can I do for you, Kvothe?" the smith asks with a wry grin.

The innkeeper took a deep look at the boy, his expression grave, before letting out a deep sigh. "Deciding not to take the King's coin was a good start. What changed your mind?"

Aaron shuffled his feet, as if embarrassed.

"Now, I know you were pulling my leg about being Kvothe Kingkiller, but…there really is more to this war than most people know, isn't there."

Kvothe nodded. "There is. This war…is it enough to say that joining it would not be a noble pursuit?"

The smith's apprentice thought for a moment, before nodding a single time. "I suppose it is. In that case, Master Kote, what can I do for you?"

With a small smile, Kvothe reached under the bar, withdrawing a square of parchment pilfered from Chronicler's stacks. With a piece of sharpened charcoal he began to write precise black lines, so straight they looked almost mechanical. Aaron had a look of intense concentration upon his face, studying the figure as it took form and dimensions were added.

"So, what it is?" the apprentice asked when Kvothe had finished drafting.

"Perhaps the only hope we have left," he said with a wink, before beginning to explain.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Long after the Orrisons had left the Waystone Inn behind in a cloud of dust, Chronicler descended from the upper floor, his flat, leather satchel held loosely by his side. Though the common room was empty of people, the table furthest from the front door was set with a large plate. A large omelet sat upon it, small wisps of heat still wafting from it, served with a generous portion of hashed potatoes.

Chronicler's stomach let out a disconsolate growl, but the scribe ignored it, setting his satchel down on the next table over. He took a long glance around the room, but finding nothing, he left the common room behind, going into the kitchen.

The innkeeper stood before a large copper pot. Liquid splashed and hissed as he dropped sliced vegetables into it.

"Good morning. I – uh, hope I didn't sleep too late."

"No, not at all," assured Kote without looking up from the soup. "At this time of day, the sunshine falls directly on the bed in your room, and should have been enough to keep you from sleeping in."

The scribe turned a speculative eye towards the innkeeper. "You really have it all figured out, don't you?"

Kote let out a laugh that contained a fair share of surprise. His expression pained after he inhaled, causing a hiss of discomfort to escape his lips. "As much as I'd like to think so, I do not…although I do know the answer to the question you're asking yourself."

"Oh?"

"Yes, that plate of eggs in the common room is indeed yours."

"Well, that's the answer to one of them," admitted Chronicler. "Your timing really is impressive."

"We have a lot of story to traverse today," Kvothe explained, his expression solemn. "The earlier we begin, the better."

Needing no further incentive, Chronicler set upon the tomato and cheese omelet. He ate quickly, taking the occasional swig of cider to wash down the food.

While the scribe ate, Kote put the finishing touches on the soup and then venture back into the common room to putter about. His gait was the slow, careful movements of someone afraid of further aggravating an injury, yet he cleared Chronicler's plate from the table without complaint, before taking a seat across from the scribe.

"Are you okay?" he asked, in the midst of drawing the latest sheet of paper from his satchel.

Kote let out a bitter laugh. "You saw everything last night; how do you think I'm feeling?"

"Yes, I saw it," the scribe said with a wince. "But when we went earlier this morning, you moved without a problem. I – I guess I'm just wondering if it's gotten worse."

The innkeeper was silent for a few moments, before drawing a heavy sigh. "The day appears to have caught up with me, finally."

Chronicler's gaze lingered on the innkeeper, but no words were forthcoming. With a shrug, he began to lay out his writing utensils. Ink was placed strategically to the right of the current sheet, while a cloth stained with thick black lines was laid over his lap.

"Where's Bast?"

"Oh, just finishing up a few things in the stable. I imagine that he will be-"

From the depths of the kitchen a door opened.

"Along any minute," finished Kvothe with a small smile. "It'd take a lot to keep him away from hearing this story."

"I imagined that he already knew most of it."

Kvothe shook his head. "No, far from it."

The kitchen door opened, admitting Bast. Chronicler, pen held within his right hand, froze as the faen's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"You didn't start without me, did you?"

"Actually, we were just finishing up," said Kvothe, before turning his gaze to the scribe. "Want to give him the quick version? I know you need to be on your way soon. After all, the Duke is waiting."

Bast stopped in his tracks for a moment, before breaking into a grin. "The Duke _is_ waiting, isn't he? Was it two days ago you were supposed to be in Abbott's Ford? Or three?" he commented wryly.

The scribe shook his head.

"I've given up all hope on that account. I'd be lucky if the Duke didn't have his guards throw me a cell for a week just for keeping him waiting. Not that I'm complaining, mind you," assured Chronicler, turning to Kvothe. "The story you've trusted me with…"

The scribe trailed off, unable to properly conclude the thought. Kvothe shook his head slightly, leaning forward in his chair.

"Speaking of which, we should resume it while daylight remains. Oh, and Bast?"

"Yes, Reshi?"

"Please keep an ear out for the sleeping patron upstairs."

"Of course!"

"Good," said Kvothe with a nod, before turning his attention back towards Chronicler. "Now…where did we leave off?"

"A stable place," answered the scribe. "A purse full of money, a tankard filled with metheglin and surrounded by friends."

"Ah, yes," said Kvothe with something approaching longing. He closed his eyes briefly, as if basking in the memory. "I was at the top of the world, and the future was bright…how strange that all seems now."

X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes:

Rothfuss has been quoted as saying the Waystone chapters have always proven difficult. I can see why; it took me almost six months to come up anything worthwhile. Thankfully, the setup is now complete, and I can go back to Kvothe's story, which I hope will come to me more easily.

Next chapter should be up in a week. Again, I'm aiming for an update a week, but with how much revision I do on these chapters, I may fall behind quickly.

I would have been lost, and this chapter would have been far crappier without the guidance of the following people: The DarIm, rand32085, Taure and T3t.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, though love it, hate it, indifferent; please let me know what you thought. I respond to all signed reviews, and appreciate the feedback.


	4. Chapter 3: The Winds of Change

Chapter Three  
_**The Winds of Change**_

EVER SINCE I BEGAN my education at the University, my studies themselves had often been secondary to paying for each term's tuition. While most of the other students had the luxury of writing home to cover a term with higher-than-expected tuition, my situation was dire. As it were, a few talents made the difference between being able to afford a second shirt, or spending every waking moment outside class at either the Eolian or the Fishery to earn that final shim. Some terms even required a trip to the local gaelet, Devi, to cover the last few jots.

That is, until I returned from Severen, Maer Alveron's writ safely enclosed within the secret compartment of my lute case.

For the past two terms, the Maer's purse had provided, and in the case of the hideously unfair tuitions set by Chancellor Hemme, lined my pockets with extravagant amounts of talents. For once, I could afford spend time on my studies, on being a student instead of trying to merely survive. If I wanted to head down to the Eolian and treat my small circle of friends to drinks, I could afford to keep Willem floating in scutten all night. Afforded the opportunity to actually study, I had the time to focus on my next goal:

Making the rank of El'the.

While my studies with Master Elodin had been progressing well, the concept of Naming was such an abstract one that lashing my hopes to it was a bad idea. No, the only sure way of ascending to the next Arcanum rank was through Master Kilvin, who primarily promoted students based upon how many schema a given student had produced. I already had one under my belt, but needed far more to even broach the subject with the Master Artificer. All of my efforts over the past two terms had proved futile, but a recent brainstorm had borne fruit.

I wanted to be the best, to be the youngest El'the in the history of the school, to receive my guilder before I turned seventeen. Granted, the extra commission it would earn me wouldn't have hurt.

Being able to focus on my studies, the shadow of poverty no longer hanging overhead, boasting friends better than I deserved; there was little left to complain about. Life without struggle was like floating in a dream, without worries; carefree.

Small wonder I never felt the winds of change until the gale had grown to a hurricane.

X-X-X-X-X-X

I entered the Fishery a few minutes shy of noon. Only a quarter of the thick-timbered worktables were occupied. Chisels gouged at metal plates and glass clinked as emitters were carefully doped by sweating, wide-eyed students. The din of the work echoed lightly throughout the large workroom, a far cry from the cacophonous roar of activity the early evenings brought.

Despite the quality of my schema, it was difficult to shed my unease without resorting to the Heart of Stone. Kilvin was not easily pleased. I had experienced close to a dozen failures over the past two terms, several of which I thought would impress the Master Artificer.

I took a wide berth around the occupied benches, making my way up the wrought-iron stairs. The door to Kilvin's office was closed, something of a rarity, even more so when I had already set up an appointment. I raised my hand to knock, before a murmur from beyond the door gave me reason to pause. I hesitantly drew my fist back.

Kilvin's office was soundproof. If I could still hear sound from outside it, however dim it may have been, then was going on inside? A bear of a man, Kilvin was prone to growling at the occasional student, but his voice never rose to a full roar. Was he hurt?

Again I reached towards the knob, before reconsidering. When the Fishery had went up in flames after the bone-tar leak, Kilvin had seriously burned both hands trying to bring the fire under control. Despite the heavy bandages covering his hands, and the immense amount of pain the burns must have been causing them, the artificer seemed immune to the pain, instead lamenting his inability to perform research. If there was anything in this world capable of making Master Kilvin shriek in agony, I was skeptical he would invite it into his office.

Discarding the notion of rushing into the Master Artificer's office, I went back down to the floor of the Fishery. Scanning the sparsely populated workshop, I saw Manet hunched over an iron vise, a triangular piece of tin wedged between its teeth.

When an Artificer is working, they are often best left undisturbed. A focused worker unexpectedly startled or jostled at the wrong moment could spell disaster. A few drops of a highly reactive chemical compound spilled on the floor, an expensive length of precious metal dropped into the forge; anything, really, could happen.

Though the potential for disaster is lessened when all the Artificer holds is a chisel, I chose to remain silent, in deference to Manet's work. A minor mistake on a rune etching seldom proved disastrous, but that was no excuse for being inconsiderate.

Squinting with one eye, Manet banged the chisel one last time, before lifting his head up and setting down his tools. He stretched his neck, turning it in small circles, while sweeping gray, frizzy strands of hair from the front of his face.

"So today's the day?" Manet asked, running a hand over his stubble-covered cheeks.

"It was, but it looks like I'm going to wait," I replied, indicating towards Kilvin's closed office.

"He's been in there a while."

"Just my luck," I said with a morose chuckle. "Whoever is in there, they've got Kilvin riled up. It was hard to tell through the door…but I think he's yelling at someone. Do you know who it is?"

Manet shrugged. "I didn't see them go in, but if they've aroused Master Kilvin's temper…I do not envy them."

"I don't know, they've already impressed me. How many people wouldn't run for the door as soon as the telling started?"

"Not me," admitted Manet, shaking his head.

"Do you think I should just come back tomorrow?" I asked, staring at the office with trepidation. A Master in a foul mood, no matter how impartial, was not going to make the most sympathetic of judges.

"Well, how good is your schema?"

I let out a sardonic chuckle. "It's not weaponry related."

"That's a start, then," said Manet with a sigh. "Keep the appointment."

"I planned on it. Besides, if I want to make El'the this year, I can't afford to wait."

"I don't know how you do it," said Manet, shaking his head.

"Hard work, determination, highly advanced mental faculties; take your pick."

"Certainly not humility, but that's not what I'm talking about. Is it true that your tuition for this term was fifty talents?"

"Hemme thought it'd be enough to keep me from coming back," I admitted. "Sadly, our Chancellor was mistaken. My benefactor has deep pockets."

Only Simmon and Wilem knew the true extent of the arrangement between the Maer and myself. Manet was an acquaintance, someone I was on friendly terms with, but not to the extent that I felt comfortable divulging how my tuition was paid.

"You've got to get back on Hemme's good side."

I let out a derisive snort, not bothering to hide my reaction. Manet was well aware of the widely publicized animosity between the two of us, and should have known we were far past the point of reconciliation.

"His lack of a good side is problematic."

"I'm serious," insisted Manet, leaning forward. "This was only the first term with him as Chancellor. How high will tuition be next time? Sixty? Seventy-five? A hundred?"

"I hope it is. It will be worth the look on his face when he realizes there's no amount I won't pay, that when I leave the University with my guilder, despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do to stop me."

"And does your creditor share this viewpoint?" asked Manet with a frown.

For a moment I considered referencing the term, 'rich as the King of Vint', before discarding the notion, as well as the elusive answer on the tip of my tongue.

Was Manet onto something? The Maer had agreed to provide for my education, but the amount of talents I was burning through was far greater than any student should have to pay for tuition. Extravagant, even. To an outsider, based on just the amount of talents I had drawn in two terms, it would look like I was swindling the Maer.

Which…well, I was, just not to the extent that it appeared.

"I'll be fine," I assured, shaking my head. The Maer owed me his life, not to mention the heart of Meluan Lackless. And even if it was a point of contention, ten years of high tuitions wouldn't even make a dent in the wealth I had repossessed deep within the Eld.

Manet looked less than convinced, but before he could argue further, the office door opened. A tall, older man emerged. His expression conveyed great boredom, leading me to wonder if Kilvin had truly been ranting at him. White hair, beard and mustache were trimmed to perfection, his stride confident as he descended the stairs, as if he owned the world. For all I knew, he might have, if the expensive cut of his clothes was any indication.

If his high cheekbones or superior sneer hadn't identified him as Modegan, then the rich, blue and red silks stitched into his clothing would have provided a clue. The stench of money practically wafted from him as he walked between the heavy benches. Unsurprisingly, I disliked him upon first sight.

"Re'lar Kvothe!"

The gruff, no nonsense tones of the Master Artificer stole my attention at once. Kilvin filled the entire office entryway, his expression grim. With a deep breath, I passed by Kilvin's visitor, and made my way up the stairs.

I had a Master to impress. In this moment, everything else was secondary.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Furious muttering in Siaru met my ears when I entered Kivlin's office. The bear-like Master Artificer paced back and forth across his office, gaze fixed upon the floor. I could make out the word 'cheat', but little else. With his clenched jaw and balled fists, I imagine none of it was flattering in nature.

"Master Kilvin," I greeted in level tones. My announcement drew the attention of Kilvin, who at least raised his head, even if he didn't say anything. Not encouraged in the least by his reception, I sought another path.

"I can come back in another day, if that would be more conveinient."

After the amount of time I had spent on my latest schema, I had no intention of letting a Modegan noble jeopardize my chance to impress Kilvin. As any Ruh trouper worth his salt would know, the reception of a performance is not solely based upon the quality of its actors, but upon the willingness of the audience to be swept away. Judging by Kilvin's obvious aggravation, a herd of Khershaen would have trouble moving him.

"No," snapped the Master Artificer, his voice cracking like a whip. Though instinctually I wanted to recoil, only through an effort of will did I stand my ground.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Kilvin took a deep breath. His shoulders lowered an inch, while his fists unclenched, as if he had exhaled the worst of his tension.

"Please, forgive me for being short of temper," apologized the large man. "You did nothing to deserve my sharp words."

"It's okay," I assured, though all I wanted to do was leave the Fishery. Even if Kilvin's mood did improve, I couldn't help but think that his judgment would still be jaded by his mood. "I did not get the impression that your guest was…agreeable."

The Master Artificer let out a low, guttural chuckle.

"No, he was not. Truth be told, Re'lar Kvothe…I am agitated," stated Kilvin, before turning his gaze to me. "But, there is no better cure for frustration than to witness new wonders of artificing. So, on that note…I expect that you have not wasted my time today."

Left with no other choice but to forge ahead, I began to reach for the roll of paper nestled safely into my pocket containing all the diagrams, sygaldry, formulas and dimensions, but the Master Artificer shook his head.

"I would have you speak of your new creation, this…?"

"I call it 'the Oasis'," I revealed at his prompting.

"The Oasis."

Kilvin tried the words out for himself, as if they were a dish under scrutiny.

"I know you weren't very fond of my idea for a ballista to reload more quickly-"

"As it was a project unbefitting of an artificer," interjected the large man, as if I had not only suggested on building one, but mass producing them as well.

"Indeed, but the idea of a project made specifically for seafaring vessels never left my mind. So…I eventually came up with the idea of the Oasis."

What I left unsaid was that my encounter with the draccus provided the proper inspiration for the idea. When the giant lizard with a stomach full of denner resin set upon Trebon, it was only my rudimentary, slapdash heat-eater which saved the town from burning to the ground. Most heat-eaters are designed as a failsafe in the event of a fire…but that did not mean they didn't have other applications.

"Travel at sea is dangerous," I began, drawing from personal experience. "Sudden storms and raiding parties are among the harshest foes sailors face…but they are not the most common."

I paused for dramatic effect, before continuing on. "At sea, water is the most valuable commodity aboard the ship. Run out, and there is a very good chance the crew will die of thirst. If the water supply is contaminated, disease will spread through the ship life wildfire. So…I've come up with a way to provide a limitless supply of drinkable water."

"Master Mandrag deals in alchemy," stated Kilvin, his expression stern. "Perhaps you should bring this project to his attention."

The barest hint of a smile betrayed the Master Artificer's words, drawing a chuckle from me. Undaunted, I pushed on.

"I'd have nothing to offer Master Mandrag. However, I do have a schema that makes extensive use of sygaldry, if you're interested."

"In that event, please continue," allowed Kilvin, crossing his arms.

"Okay, everyone knows that if you boil seawater, you're left only with salt."

"A common misconception," interjected the Master Artificer.

"I know that, I'm just stating the widely held view. When water changes from a liquid to a gas, it expands roughly fifteen-hundred times. The Oasis takes the steam from boiled seawater and introduces it to low temperatures, turning the vapor back into water, sans salt."

"A great deal of energy is required to boil water."

"Indeed it does. If I were using a traditional heating source, such as oil or wood, then the Oasis would be worthless."

"Perhaps not worthless…but yes, it would be cumbersome for the crew to fuel it. I trust that you have developed an alternative energy source."

"I have," I confirmed, moving towards the slate board taking up the entire length of the back wall and picking up a stub of chalk. "May I?"

At Kilvin's assenting nod, I drew ten small squares, before turning to the Master Artificer.

"Each one of these is a 'collector'. They are made from tin, the correct sygaldry is etched into them, before being painted black. Upon high points in the ship they'll be mounted. They will absorb the sunlight and transfer it to the…"

I paused to draw a series of three rings placed inside one another. "…The 'range', which will heat the seawater. The range, which is also made of tin, has a limit of three hundred degrees. When the limit is reached, any incoming heat will be transferred to a heat-eater."

Below the range I drew another circle, labeling it as a heat-eater. Above the range I drew two cylinders stacked upon one another. Pointing to the lower one, I continued my explanation.

"The seawater is boiled in the lower chamber, and the steam rises into the upper chamber, where it condenses back into liquid form."

"And when the sun does not shine?" prodded Kilvin.

"Then no fresh water is produced," I said with a shrug. "On a good day, with eight solid hours of sunshine, the Oasis can create twenty-five gallons of fresh water. When the sun goes down, and the collectors grow cold, you may be able to get a few more gallons when the heat-eater begins to release back the range, but not much more."

"But it could produce more if the scale was increased," Kilvin observed, running a hand through his thick beard.

"Perhaps, but my dimension were conceived for optimal performance. The total surface area of the collectors and the size of the heat-eater are the two main variables. In my schema, the heat-eater is in the shape of a sphere to maximize its volume. Made from iron, with a radius of six inches-"

"Two hundred fifty pounds," calculated the Master Artificer. "I understand why you would be hesitant to increase the size of the heat-eater."

"Not only that, but I wanted to keep the surface area of the collectors to a minimum. There's only so many out-of-the-way places you can find on a ship, where they won't interfere with the sailors' work."

"And will these places account for the changing position of the sun?"

"They will. The plates are mounted on freely swiveling brackets that will automatically point towards the sun."

"And this mechanism will work?"

"It will," I assured. "Schema using sunlight are rare, so I made sure that the attraction between the sun and the plates worked before I made my appointment with you. Would I have wasted your time if I was unsure?"

"One would hope not," stated Kilvin, studying my drawings with a speculative eye. "This would cost a great deal of talents to produce, and would not be easy to replicate on a large scale."

"No, it wouldn't," I admitted, taking a deep breath. "But if I were a merchant looking to ship goods from Tarbean to Vintas, I would be willing to pay handsomely to cut down on transit time."

He grunted in a non-committal fashion, before holding out his hand. "The schema."

I obliged the Master Artificer, handing him the roll of paper. He turned the schema over in his large, heavily-calloused hands, eyes roaming over every formula, metallurgic symbol, dimension and sygaldric rune.

"I have two questions," stated Kilvin, looking up from the paper. I nodded, anticipating the statement. Having researched my latest schema within the boundaries of the law, he had no reason to question my procurements this time around.

"Of all things, why make this?"

"Master Kilvin, what lies to the west of the Commonwealth?"

The artificer frowned at my question. "The sea."

"And what lies beyond the sea?"

The frown faded from Kilvin's face. "So you aspire to be the first to cross the western sea?"

I shrugged. "At the very least, it'd be an option. The sea has to end somewhere, right?"

"Perhaps, but it is difficult to be certain. I would not suggest such a journey…but it is not my decision to make."

"Not that I plan on going anywhere soon," I clarified. "After all, I would like to have my guilder before making that type of journey."

Kilvin let out a rumble of a chuckle. "If you continue to create such wondrous things, you shall have it. I do not believe the Oasis will be sold to many, but that does not matter. When a parched sailor sees your creation, he will thank that artificer that created it."

"You don't think it is very marketable?" I asked, slightly crestfallen by the Master Artificer's opinion.

"I do not," Kilvin admitted, "But do not be discouraged. Many lose sight of the fact that true artificery is not about how many talents one can make, but how a creation can help this world. Yes, the Oasis may not sell, but that does not diminish the fact that it is an improvement to the world. Do you think that my efforts to create an ever-burning lamp are performed with profit in mind?"

It could be argued that that the burning lamps were an obsession more than anything else, but I chose to keep this opinion to myself.

"No. If making money was your only concern, you would have never agreed to sell the Bloodless for eight talents."

The Master Artificer favored me with a nod of approval. "You have not only the mind of a true Artificer, but the heart, Re'lar Kvothe. Two times you have created wonders for this world. One more time, and you shall be raised to the level of El'the."

There were further words after that, including the setting of the price, further congratulations by the Master Artificer, but I cannot recall any of them. Every trial, every hardship since I had endured since I had arrived at the University…it was all worth it.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes

Here it is, the first proper chapter dealing with Kvothe's story, as opposed to the Waystone. Not a whole lot here, but it does pick up where 'The Wise Man's Fear' left off, and takes it in what I believe to be a logical direction.

Hurricane Sandy knocked down trees in front of my house, taking out the power, so I'm posting this from a friend's house. I've been charging my laptop at her house then going home and writing until the battery dies.

Next chapter is in progress. It's far, far longer than I thought it would be, and might not be ready by next Thursday. We shall see.

Thanks to rand32085, The DarIm, Taure and T3t for their assistance with this chapter. Special recognition goes out to rand32085 for ironing out the idea of the 'Oasis', and taking the time to clearly illustrate the flaws in my original design.

I do hope you enjoyed the chapter, but love it or hate, feel free to let me know either way. I respond to all reviews I receive, and appreciate any and all feedback. Due to power issues, my replies might be a little late in coming, but they'll get there eventually.

DLP Thanks:

Deathshade, Ragon, Gambit, syed,


	5. Chapter 4: Revelry

Chapter Four  
_**Revelry**_

EVERY STEP FELT AS light as a feather as I stepped out of the Fishery, into bright early-afternoon sunshine.

As anyone who has ever achieved a great success can attest, there is nothing quite like the aftermath of achievement. The world, even the unsavory portions, takes on a pristine gleam, like freshly fallen snow.

I knew my schema, 'The Oasis', was good, and that Kilvin would accept it. It wouldn't have been worth wasting the Master Artificer's time if it hadn't been, but expecting an outcome and experiencing it are entirely different entities. My deepest doubts and concerns regarding Master Kilvin's reaction had fortunately been found wanting.

Cresting upon a wave of success, there was only one place where one could properly celebrate my triumph: The Eolian.

And for that, I needed my accomplices.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Wilem was working the front desk at the Archives, and wouldn't be off his shift for another hour. With the promise of all the scutten he could drink, he merrily agreed to meet me outside of Mains once his relief arrived.

I expected Simmon to be within the Archives as well, but the sign-in book said otherwise. One half of my entourage secured for the night's debauchery, I bid farewell to Wilem before exiting through the twin wooden doors.

The third floor of Mews was filled with the quiet of early afternoon. All the doorways along the main hallway were closed, Sim's included. At this time of day, Simmon could normally be found within the Archives, but as the Archive ledger had said, today was an exception. My three knocks upon his dorm door echoed down the hallway, the sound quickly fading away. From within the room I heard the distinct rustle of someone moving upon a straw mattress.

Dead silence reigned over the third floor of Mews. Closed doors ran down the entire length of the west wing's hallway. When I knocked upon Sim's door, the three sharp, polite raps echoed for a moment, before fading away. From within the room I heard the rustling of a person shifting upon a straw mattress.

"Hello," came floating Simmon's voice, muffled slightly by the thick door. His greeting was slow and drawn out, as if spoken while yawning. Was Sim still sleeping? If so, it was early afternoon, and the day held too much promise to spend sleeping.

"Time to wake up!" I urged, grasping the handle and turning. The door opened half an inch, before the latch on the other side caught, holding the door in place.

"Open up," I urged, leaning into the latched door. "I have good news."

"That's…that's great," said Sim with a long, drawn out yawn. "But…I'm a little busy right now. Can you come back later?"

I felt a wicked smile stretch across my face at Sim's pantomimed yawn. My friend was many things, but an accomplished liar was not one of them.

"I'm through for the day, so I'll just wait out here for you to wake up," I explained, bottling up the laughter bubbling within.

"No, Kvothe, you won't!" exclaimed Sim, clearly aghast at the thought. "I…I have studying to do for Advanced Sympathy!"

I eased up on the door for a moment, before pushing against, causing the cheap latch to rattle dangerously.

"Let me help you then!" I urged with boundless enthusiasm. "With me around, you'll be done in no time!"

"Alchemy! I meant alchemy!" Sim yelled, amending his story.

"Oh, well, I don't know anything about alchemy," I admitted, my words dripping with defeat. Pressure upon the door was relinquished as I took a step back. "Anyway, you shall accompany me to the Eolian, where I shall keep your cups full and listen as I regale both yourself and Wilem with tales of my genius."

"So we won't be there long?"

"Oh, and you're more than welcome to accompany us, Fela," I said, ignoring Sim's quip. The young woman in question let out an embarrassed laugh, which was nearly drowned out by Sim's frustrated groan. "Just drop by Wilem's dorm whenever you're…finished."

"Leave!" yelled Simmon, the loud yell echoing through the silent hallway. A few doors banged open at his exclamation, their occupants poking their heads out, wearing looks of either amusement or annoyance.

I let out a low chuckle, before I bid farewell to the two young lovers, leaving them to their dalliance.

X-X-X-X-X-X

An hour later found Simmon, myself and Wilem on the road to Imre. Fela, due to being scheduled for work at the Archives, was not with us, but had assured Sim she would make it to the Eolian once her shift was over.

"How did you know she was there?" asked the young Caeldish man, dark eyebrows furrowed, frown lines around his mouth creased.

It must be said that the humor of the situation was lost upon Wilem. Ceald was the most sexually conservative culture within the Four Corners. My jest would have seemed more like an insult to him, akin to breaking down the door and hanging over them. Not just sex, but intimacy of any sort was an intensely private affair for the Cealdish.

"I don't know our mutual friend to sleep past noon, even after a night of heavy indulgence."

Wilem grunted, seeing my logic, but not wanting to voice any approval for my actions, turned to Sim. "And what does Fela think of this?"

"She found it more amusing that I did," grumbled Sim, though his words had no bite to them.

"If I really wanted to torture them, I would have unlatched the door and propped it open," I added nonchalantly. At my words, Wilem's gaze widened with shock. "Of course, that would have been crossing the line," I clarified.

"A very unfamiliar place for you," observed Sim.

"The line?" asked Wilem.

"The boundaries of what is socially acceptable."

Wilem was silent for a moment, as if mulling my words over in his mind.

"For three years I have studied here, but still the ways of the Commonwealth are strange to me. When a man and a woman are together…they are not to be disturbed. It is a great insult to do so."

"I knew Fela would have found it more amusing than uncomfortable," I assured my friend. "If I thought it would offend her, I would have never had disturbed them."

"And what about me?" demanded Sim, at which I gave a carefree shrug.

"Didn't spare it much thought," I said, causing Wilem's frown to soften out. Up ahead, the pristine grass and rock-trimmed gardens fell back, giving way to the great stone bridge. As we approached we heard the dull roar of the waters of the Omethi, rising up out of the canyon.

"Spit for luck," I urged, as Master Elodin had once said to me.

"Speaking of strange customs of the Commonwealth," said Simmon, a look of mock distaste upon his face. The mask broke as he leaned over the lip of the stone barrier, a boyish grin upon his face as he followed suit. After letting fly with his contribution to the Omethi, he turned back towards me. "If this night ends in disaster, I am never doing that again."

I shook my head in mock disapproval. "Please be reasonable, Sim. Good company, all the drinks you could possibly want, all free of charge…what could possibly go wrong?"

Sim let out a snicker as Wilem followed our example, letting fly with a projectile of impressive size. Ten yards away, a young man looking down at the raging current looked towards us. Above a carefully trimmed beard his mouth was thinned to a line. With his high cheekbones and bright, vibrant blue eyes, the familiarity of his disdain left no room for doubt.

"Sovoy!" I yelled, raising my right hand in greeting. For a brief, unguarded moment, the manicured distaste slipped away, replaced by not just disbelief, but genuine joy, as if he was actually pleased to see familiar faces.

"Kvothe?" he mouthed, standing in place, his aloof expression back in place. As quickly as it had arrived, the glimpse into Sovoy's true thoughts on the matter vanished.

"Not to mention Wilem and Simmon," I added, moving towards the Modegan noble, hand outstretched. "Good to see you back."

I did not have to feign my pleasantries. Sovoy may have been one of the more vain, entitled students to ever attend the University, but there was more to him than the privileged noble most people saw.

After a moment of hesitation he regained his senses, meeting my hand with a light-fingered grip. He pumped once, before letting go. "I…I didn't recognize you."

"Must be my new apparel," I said with a grin, taking the fabric of my new shirt between two of my fingers. They were no Modegan silks, but the weave was smooth and the thread count high; a marked improvement the tired wardrobe I made work during my first term at the University.

"It's not just that," clarified the young noble, shaking his head. "It's as if…"

He trailed off, as if unable to articulate his description without using his native tongue.

"That our Kvothe has become slightly unhinged?" guessed Sim, offering out his hand. With far more grace than had been displayed earlier, Sovoy took it, exchanging greetings with both Sim and Wilem. Once the proper pleasantries had been observed, Sovoy turned back to me, his eyes quizzical.

"What happened to you while I saw away? I had heard several accounts of your untimely demise, but…I have a feeling the truth may be stranger than the stories."

At his question, a sly grin formed upon my face.

"You may be correct. Perhaps you'll join the three of us at the Eolian, and be the judge of that yourself."

"Well, there goes the afternoon," grumbled Sim.

"An afternoon with free drinks," Wilem added, causing his friend's expression to brighten.

"Indeed it is. Lead on, then, Kvothe! I've kegs to empty!"

X-X-X-X-X-X

The post at the Eolian's entrance, normally occupied by Deoch, was vacant. Early afternoons often found the establishment empty, no patrons to speak of, and this day way no exception.

Deoch, his face partially hidden by a wide-brimmed hat, was seated at a small table near the door. His companions were a slender, dark green bottle and a clear wine glass with stray crimson drops clinging to it. At our entrance, the large, muscular man grinned, taking off his hat and setting it upon the table.

"It is only good fortune which brings people to such an establishment at this early hour. Who is the blessed soul?" he asked, inquisitive gaze moving from face to face.

"Well, that is a matter of debate," said Simmon, speaking up before I could.

"Oh?" prodded Deoch, focusing his attention upon the sandy-haired young man.

"One could say that it is Kvothe who has received the blessing of god. How else would such a thick-headed individual impress an otherwise intelligent instructor?"

"Did you meant 'hard-headed'?" Wilem offered. "Or stubborn?"

Sim waved his hand, as if the point were irrelevant.

"Regardless, in light of his bewildering development, young Kvothe has offered to mark the occasion by keeping us floating in drinks all night. So, one could say that we all enjoy blessings today."

"Indeed, it could be said," agreed Deoch.

"Of course, that invitation would also extend to you, if you haven't already dug too deeply into your own," I added, motioning to the empty glass upon his table, at which the doorman drew in a deep sigh.

"Alas, I am deeply entrenched," he admitted, rising to his feet. "Perhaps later. If I take you up on that now, there could be trouble."

"Approaching the tipping point?"

Deoch let out a light chuckle.

"More like straddling the line," he clarified, picking up the wine bottle and shaking it. A trace amount of liquid sloshed around the bottom of the bottle. In all probability, only his prodigious size had saved Deoch from blacking out at the table. "But please, don't let that fact stop you four from imbibing. I do believe some fresh air will do me some good."

"I did not intend it to," declared Wilem, before turning to me. "When you are finished fishwiving, I will have scutten."

His intentions voiced, Wilem gravitated towards a table on the far side of the room. Sovoy followed, after informing me he'd take a blackberry brand.

"That does sound good," admitted Deoch, before shaking his head in resignation. "Alas, responsibility stills my hand. I do believe fresh air would be the best option right now."

"Don't forget about my offer," I reminded him. He let out a hearty chuckle, slapping me on the back.

"Only a fool would forget such generosity. Farewell for now," he said, before shambling towards the door. His gait was not a drunken lurch, but his steps were slow and deliberate.

"That man can drink," stated Sim with admiration, looking at the nearly empty wine bottle.

"Indeed he can," I agreed. "So, how will you begin tonight's bloodletting?"

"Cinnamon mead," Sim answered at once, a wide, boyish grin upon his face.

"Lousy shim," I muttered with good humor, drawing a laugh from my friend. Drink orders received, I turned towards the bar to fill the requests. There was no one behind the long, winding length of mahogany, but at my approach, an innocuous rectangle of paneled wood swung outward. With its seamless nature, I was forcibly reminded of both the four-plate door at the heart of the Archives, and the Lackless box.

Stanchion emerged from the cunningly crafted hidden door. His round, bearded face broke into a grin upon seeing me.

"Good day to you, Kvothe. Would it be safe to assume that fortune has smiled upon you today?"

"It would," I confirmed, my still focused upon Stanchion's dramatic entrance. "That is one cleverly constructed door."

The wall was bereft of breaks, the door fitting seamlessly into the paneling. With its lack of gaps, I was reminded of the 'four-plate' door deep within the Archives.

"As much as I detest it, there are times when I must attend to the business aspect of running the Eolian, which I prefer to conduct in privacy."

"Which, of course, if not quarantined, could spread and infect this establishment's distinct creative atmosphere."

Stanchion let out a chuckle as he put his palms upon the polished mahogany bar, bracing himself.

"My motivations have been lain bare, I'm afraid. So, what can I get for you and your cohorts?"

I gave my friends' requests, along with my own for cider, which prompted Stanchion's bushy eyebrows to rise.

"I take it you're keeping your facilities clear for a performance tonight?"

I nodded in assent as he began take down bottles and pour them into mugs.

"My work at the University has absorbed most of my free time as of late, but today I was liberated from the heaviest of my burdens. I am going to set the stage aflame tonight, but after that, I fear your stores of liquor will be dealt a grievous blow."

"If you intend to fund the entirety of this night's exploits, you may be correct," observed Stanchion, setting down the last of the drinks; a clay mug filled with cider. I paid him for the drinks and thanked him, before bringing them over to the table occupied by my partners in crime, setting them down.

"To Kvothe's unexpected successes," toasted Sim, raising his mug of cinnamon mead.

"To free drinks!" added Wilem, raising a glass of his beloved scutten. Sovoy settled for raising a glass in my direction and favoring me with the slightest of nods. He took a deep drink of his brand, before setting down his glass, his glance inquisitive.

"So, Kvothe…you've become quite well known during my absence from the University. Even in Modeg they speak of your deeds as if you were the second coming of Taborlin."

"Is that so?" I asked politely before taking a small sip of my cider. The drink was cold upon my tongue, the apples used to make it freshly picked. It was like inhaling the fertile breath of autumn.

"It is. With all I've heard, it is difficult to separate fact from myth. One hardly knows what to think."

"Oh, I doubt that," Sim piped in with a cheeky grin. "The day you hold no opinion on a subject is the day I take King Roderic's place."

Sovoy bore the barb with grace. "Perhaps you misconstrue my words, and grasp towards a false assumption; I certainly know what _I _think."

"And what would that be?" I asked.

"The fae are not real," stated Sovoy, his words allowing no room for argument. "So I very much doubt you laid with Felurian, but…you are the same person who, during their first week at the University, bore three lashes with stoic indifference and was admitted into the Arcanum, all while barely outside the cusp of puberty."

Sim nearly snorted mead through his nose at the observation, and even Wilem cracked a smile.

"I assure you, I was well past that point when I arrived here," I clarified. The Modegan noble waved his hand, as if the matter were unimportant.

"Regardless, my point remains the same; if anything of a miraculous nature was to happen to anyone…my money would be on you."

I leaned back, not bothering to hide the satisfied smirk which found its way onto my face. To hear that tales of my exploits had made their way across the furthest reaches of the Four Corners…to deny the satisfaction it brought would be a lie.

"So," continued Sovoy, picking his glass back up, "I would be interested in hearing the truth behind the stories."

As much as I enjoyed relaying my adventures, I shook my head, holding onto my tales a moment longer. Through my time with Felurian, I had learned there is nothing as powerful or gripping as a story held hostage.

"While you may have heard of me, I have heard nothing from you," I explained. "One term you were here, the next you were gone. No goodbyes, no farewells…just gone."

At my request, Sovoy seemed to draw inward into himself, his expression souring.

"Look, I'm sorry, but…it's not a very interesting story."

"We thought you had left the University for good and without hearing directly from you, we assumed the worst," spoke up Simmon, his voice soft. "A dying family member, no money for tuition, a particularly vexing token from one of the brothels…"

Sovoy bowed his head, just enough to cover a small smile.

"I assure, it's nothing nearly as exciting as that."

"Well, that settles it then, doesn't it?" I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest. "My tale, I am not ashamed to say, is rather magnificent in scope. So, therefore, etiquette dictates that you should go first."

"Fine, fine," he agreed, before letting out a weak chuckle. "Tell me again; why did I agree to hold court over this circus?"

"For free drinks," reminded Wilem, lifting his glass off the table and showcasing it like a prize.

"Ah, there is that," Sovoy conceded. He took a deep drink of his blackberry brand, before setting it back down on the table. "Well, I've always said that the Masters squeeze the nobility twice as hard as anyone."

"Young Kvothe here would beg to differ," contested Sim.

"Not right now, though," I clarified, dismissing Sim's comment with a wave of my hand. "c

lLater, once you've said your piece."

Sovoy frowned for a moment, as if I was speaking from a place of ignorance. After a moment, he shrugged, and continued. "Eighty-three strehlaum."

"That is most certainly a lot," observed Sim.

"Yes, it is," spat Sovoy. His jaw was tightened, as if the mere memory was enough to set his teeth grinding. "After answering all their questions, including Hemme's verbal atrocity…it was more than I could take. Without hesitation I made haste for Imre and joined up with the first caravan headed home."

He stopped briefly to take another long pull at his glass of blackberry brand before continuing.

"For all my complaints about this city, I do not truly hate the Commonwealth, but when contrasted with my home…there is truly no comparison. Modeg knows nothing of your harsh winters or oppressive religious institutions, nor of spitting over bridges." He finished with a grin.

Wilem nodded, as if his words struck a chord of resonance. My Cealdish friend never complained about the Commonwealth, or its customs, but he was not immune to occasional bouts of homesickness.

"Well then, consider our earlier display as a heartfelt welcome back to the Commonwealth." Simmon said with an impudent smile.

"Thanks for that," Sovoy deadpanned, before continuing his story. "So, I returned home for a long time, soaking up as much as Modeg as I could before returning to his barbaric realm."

"Did you ever consider staying home?" I asked.

"Not with any real seriousness." Sovoy sighed. "Along with the joy of being home, it allowed me the opportunity to save up my allowance, to preserve my finances for when I'm robbed again by the Masters."

"I hope you saved a great deal," added Wilem, drawing a concerned glance from the Modegan noble.

"Why is that?"

"Hemme has taken over as Chancellor," Simmon explained, a sour expression upon his face. "Last term, young Kvothe here received a tuition of fifty talents."

"Fifty talents! _Hylta tiem!_" he swore. "Hemme…he hates me!"

"I'd be willing to bet he hates me more," I began, hoping to ease the sting. "I'm sure he won't be as hard on you. Besides, Admissions isn't for another few spans. You have plenty of time to study."

Despite my best efforts, Sovoy was not consoled. Not that I blamed him; if there was any Master likely to carry a grudge, no matter how marginal the slight, it would be Hemme.

In one quick movement, Sovoy tipped back his glass, draining the rest of his blackberry brand in a single long swallow. He coughed deeply, before setting the empty glass back on the table.

"Well, that settles it. I did have a prior engagement in the early evening, but it's going to have to wait."

"Don't want any obstacles preventing you from getting blackly drunk?" ventured Sim.

"Exactly," Sovoy confirmed, rising to his feet, empty glass in hand.

"I, for one, am glad to see that nothing particularly vexing drove you from here." I declared. "Even if your story wasn't tremendously exciting…it's really the best we could have hoped for. It's good to have you back." I raised my mug in salute.

"Thanks for the warm reception." He said, raising his own glass. "I never did claim my story would be captivating, but I did intend to hold up my end of the bargain."

"As have I, if the empty glass in your hand is any indication."

Sovoy tipped the glass in my direction, before walking over to the bar, his gait steady and confident. He gave his order to Stanchion, before falling into deep conversation with the proprietor of the Eolian. Despite the news of Hemme's appointment to the Chancellor's seat, which I would like liken to opening an aged bottle of wine only to find it filled with urea, the Modegan noble was in good spirits. It did my heart good to see him in such a fine state.

I would never claim myself to be a good friend of his, but during my first few terms at the University, he was a close companion, and on several occasions kept my studies afloat. If not for the bets he gathered during my duels in Advanced Sympathy, I may not have been able to come up with tuition my first few terms.

"His fortunes have turned around," observed Wilem, taking another sip of scutten.

"Perhaps he'll be able to re-hire his manservant then," Simmon replied. "I wonder how he got back in family's good graces."

"He never left them," Wilem answered. "His gets an allowance each term. If his tuition is high, then…"

He trailed off with a shrug, not needing to illustrate the point further. Simmon, however, pressed on.

"I don't know. Would his family still be extending him an allowance if he wasn't at the University? Maybe he had to accept a marriage proposal that came with a hefty dowry? That's who he had to meet later today!"

Wilem let out a chuckle. "I do not think so. If Sovoy was to be married to someone, I am certain he left her back in Modeg."

"That's it then!" declared Simmon between peals of laughter. "He came back here to get away from her. No wonder he seems happy!"

Sovoy shook his head as he arrived back at the table with a glass topped off with blackberry brand.

"I leave you three alone for several minutes, and all vestiges of composure vanish. So, Kvothe," he said, focusing his gaze upon me. "I believe you promised me a story. My glass is full, and my attention is yours."

With a smile I lifted my mug up and overturned, though only a few stray drops spilled onto the table. "Mine, however, is empty, and storytelling is thirsty work."

"As is listening," declared Wilem, pushing his own empty glass across the table, in Sovoy's direction. "It is time for more scutten."

"Do I look like a serving wench?" demanded Sovoy, defiance bright in his eyes.

"No, Yyu're dressed too richly to be a serving wench," Sim observed. "I think they'd call you something else."

Sovoy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fine. Since I am apparently the only one here tonight with functioning legs, what poor quality swill are you drowning yourself with?"

"Cider. I plan on playing tonight." I explained, giving an affectionate pat to the lute case beneath my chair.

"Girl," Wilem stated, matter-of-factly.

"Wait, you're perfectly capable of playing while inebriated," protested Sim. "What's different about today?"

I let out a chuckle. "Perhaps I explained myself poorly. Naturally I am more than capable of playing after a few drinks; I am more concerned about my choice of song."

Sim clapped his hands together. "Sovoy, ignore this foolish child! He'll take metheglin, and be happy about it."

"No, he won't," I corrected, before leveling an accusatory finger in Sim's direction. "You are not goading me into playing 'Jackass, Jackass' tonight."

"I will not rest until our dear friend's personal ballad graces the patrons of the Eolian."

"Then I would venture that you have some sleepless nights ahead of you," I said with a grin. As much as I enjoyed the song, not to mention tweaking Ambrose, it was more trouble than it was worth at the moment. With Hemme as Chancellor, I couldn't take the risk when a singe complaint could lead to my expulsion.

Cursed as I am with hindsight, I should have just pressed onward with the song, enjoying the laughter it would have brought.

In two spans, not only would my time at the University draw to a decisive close, but I would be one of the most notorious criminals in the Four Corners.

X-X-X-X-X-X

The story that I launched into, if not exactly accurate to my own, was at least an abridged version of the exploits during my three-term sojourn. Being my closest friends, Simmon and Wil received the full, unedited version, but Sovoy…

Think of the deepest, more intimate experience you've ever had in your life. How it colors your every word, affects every decision you've ever made. How comfortable would you be with sharing that personal catharsis?

I was friendly with the Modegan noble, that cannot be denied, but he did leave the University for nearly two years. Looking at myself, I know that the person who left Imre on a boat bound for Severen never returned. What I experienced changed me in a fundamental sense.

I suspected the same held true for Sovoy, regardless of his story. Not that I doubted his words; only that there was more to his two years away from the University than he cared to admit. How had that time away changed him? I didn't blame him for holding details back…but in the same breath, he would have to be content with the information I was willing to part with.

If Sovoy picked up on the sparse nature of my tale, he gave no indication. He was held in rapt attention, no more so than relating my time in Admere. Only the Stormwal Mountains separated Modeg and Admere, but the Adem were still a mystery. Aside from mercenaries, few residents of Admere ventured from their lands, preferring the solitude of their corner of the world.

Unsurprisingly, despite his interest in Felurian, it was her part of the story which drew the most amount of skepticism. I didn't make much of an effort to persuade him either way, content to let him form his own conclusions.

Once my story was over, we drifted over to playing Corners, Sim and myself against Wilem and Sovoy. Sheer luck found my side up a few hands, compensating for Sim's hopelessly optimistic bets, but our matches were swiftly becoming battles of attrition. All three of my companions had enthusiastically taken to my offer of free drinks, and were starting to show the effects.

After pulling out a victory, despite Sovoy's mishandling of a hand, the Modegan noble's attention drifted to the door. The advent of the evening had slowly filled the Eolian, a steady stream of murmurs filling its spaces. The two newest entrants, two young women in silk dresses and artfully curled hair, drew his attention.

"I do have to admit," he said in the quiet tones of conspiracy, "that this evening has brought its fair share of young, nubile ladies. Shall we invite them over for a drink?"

One of the girls caught onto Sovoy's inspection. She nudged her friend, a blonde in green silks matched to fetching, bright eyes, whispering into her ear. They shared a few private giggles, before moving towards the stairs leading up the second level.

"I believe they were spoken for." I surmised, drawing a dismissive wave from Sovoy.

"The night is young, Kvothe. After a few drinks and songs, the Commonwealth code of morality becomes a bit more flexible."

The good humor drained from Simmon's alcohol-flushed face, thinning his mouth to a line. "So it's customary to make passes at men's wives in front of them in Modeg? Is that how it's done?"

"Have I offended you in some arcane fashion?" asked Sovoy. "If so, please let me know, because when I left the University, your consistent failures with the fairer sex were legendary."

"I have done very well as of late, rest assured. Do you remember Fela?"

"Only the blind could forget her. You two? I thought…"

He trailed off, throwing a glance in my direction. This did nothing to improve the frown upon Simmon's face, which looked in danger of becoming permanent, though Sovoy held no blame for the thought.

If this were a romantic play, my rescue of Fela from the bone-tar explosion would have been the climax of the first act. Like a sacred dance, we would have begun our slow circles around one another as our love blossomed.

Life, however, is seldom that simple.

"While Fela was grateful for my actions at the Fishery, we are just friends," I clarified.

"In that case, congratulations are in order," stated Sovoy, raising his mug into the air. "Fela is a fine woman, and well deserving of someone so obviously dedicated to her."

The toast mollified Simmon, smoothing out the frown lines on his face.

"Kvothe already has a ladylove to moon over." Wilem observed, before draining the last of his scutten. His fifth of the night.

"And you are drunk," I countered, hoping to close out the subject. As much as I cared for Denna, thoughts of her were always accompanied by sadness. It felt like every one of our encounters was a balancing act, and each word a sudden gust of wind. "I do not moon."

"Don't be fooled by young Kvothe's entreats," urged Sim in a conspirator's tone. "He has perfected the craft of mooning, turning it into an art form. Despite knowing a great deal of the University's female population in the biblical sense, he still holds high the torch for his one true love."

Sovoy let out a chuckle. "Could it be that one of the undignified _rhiama_ has realized that there is a difference between love and sex?"

"One of the Adem mercaneries said the same thing," I said with a laugh, "Though she would have used the term 'barbarian'."

"Why do things in this world not make sense?" scoffed Wilem, amidst the laughter of my other friends. "It was always said that the Adem never have sex, instead pouring all energy into fighting."

"The Adem are hesitant to fornicate with those outside their culture," I explained.

"Because we are dirty barbarians?" asked Sim with a lopsided grin.

"There is no sexual disease in Admere."

"Bullshit!" he exclaimed, slapping his hand down upon the table. "How is that even possible?"

"I assume it's due to the isolation of their culture. Not to mention the fact that there's no prostitution in Admere."

"And they refer to _us_ as savages," said Sovoy with a derisive sniff, raising eyebrows around the table. "What?" he asked, in the face of our incredulous stares.

The dam broke, and the three of us broke into loud peals of laughter. We received our fair share of wary glances from the surrounding tables. Wilem's chuckles tapered off, embarrassed by the pairs of eyes focused upon him. Though well on his way, he had not yet drank enough scutten to lose his self-consciousness.

From birth I have lived upon the stage, making the eye of the public no more bothersome than a gentle breeze. As for Sim…well, there was something to be said for liquid courage.

As the laughter tapered off, so did the attention focused upon our table. We resumed our increasingly sloppy hands of Corners, getting off a few more rounds. Towards the end it became stealing, as being the only one in complete control of my facilities put me at a distinctly unfair advantage.

Sim, unfamiliar with such success, did not hesitate to gloat over his winnings, hovering over his small pile of jots.

"Care to try again, gentlemen? While the fates have been cruel, the night is young, and…"

He trailed off, the boyish, carefree grin curdling like milk left in the sun. His gaze was fixed at a point over my left shoulder.

"What is it?" I asked, resisting the urge to turn and look.

"Our favorite member of the Arcanum, along with his entourage of merry men."

I let out a deep sigh. Our rivalry hadn't seen a flare-up since my return from Vintas, but I wasn't foolish enough to believe that Ambrose had laid our feud to rest. Truth be told, if anything were to happen, my money would have been on tonight, with vast quantities of alcohol thrown into the equation.

"He is going to the mezzanine," observed Wilem after a few moments. An entirely welcome, if expected, turn of events.

"What better place to lord his rightful position above us peasants?" said Sim with uncharacteristic sourness.

"As long as it keeps him away from us."

"It would appear that no matter what changes befall us, some things never change," Sovoy said, his attention turned towards me. "When I left the University, you were at one another's throat. The situation hardly seems to have improved."

"It has only escalated since then," I admitted with a shrug.

Sovoy blew out a frustrated breath of air. "You need to leave this alone, Kvothe. What do you know about the Jakis family?"

"That any parents who produced a son as foul as Ambrose leave something to be desired, and Baron Jakis is thirteenth in line to succeed King Roderic. Oh, and Ambrose's younger sister was caught within a brothel. Buying. Did I leave anything out?"

"I heard she was selling," Sovoy admitted with a faint smile, before his expression grew serious. "Regardless, your other information is out of date; Baron Jakis is now seventh in line. Prince Regent Alaitis was killed in a duel. Baron Iblis and his two oldest sons were killed by raiders on the Great Stone Road. The youngest son hung himself a month later in despair."

"An awfully convenient run of tragedy for Baron Jakis."

Sovoy gave a grim nod. "You are not the first one to mention that. Disasters at sea are a common enough occurrence, but for a royal family accompanied by a host of guards on one of the most heavily-traveled roads in the Four Corners? That speaks of coordination above and beyond simple banditry."

Although my first impulse was to dismiss his words, Sovoy's words struck a familiar note. Ambrose had bought out a hotel just so I couldn't take a position there. He had poisoned every noble in a hundred mile radius of Imre against me, making it impossible to find a patron. I couldn't prove it, but was certain he had even hired two assassins to kill me. Were these the actions of a lone noble with a pathological cruel streak? Or were they Ambrose learning the ropes of the family business?

"They are ruthless," continued Sovoy. "You really need to be careful. The further they move up the line of succession, the greater their influence grows. If you should ever travel back in Vintas, you would have more enemies than you could ever know."

"For all we know, he could have pointed the pirates towards the ship you took bound for Severen," Wilem mumbled, the thick burr in his accent beginning to deepen.

"Ambrose is many things, but omniscient is not one of them," I refuted. "Few people knew of my destination."

"Perhaps a friend of the Jakis family worked on the docks?"

"Or at least someone looking to curry favor with them," Sim added. I started to argue the point, before lapsing into silence. Each time I had underestimated the influence and wealth of Ambrose, I've been made a fool of. Devi had even mentioned that the Jakis barony was referred to as the 'Pirate Isles'. Could the Jakis' have been behind not just my own disaster in the Centhe Sea, but the loss of the Surthen family?

With that sobering thought in mind, the river of chatter and laughter faded to a trickle as the lights dimmed. A young woman of dark Ceald complexion took the stage. Bright eyes the color of black coffee scanned the crowd a single time, before she brought a flute to her lips. Crimson light reflected off its polished body as sweet, mournful tones lit the air, as if the flutist was playing the flames.

I leaned back against the chair as she played, soaking it in. Her choice of song was not the most taxing, but the notes were played flawlessly. The songs she played were short, no longer than five minutes, but between each clear, angelic verses of Siaru lit into the air. Turning to my right, I saw that Wilem, normally the very picture of stoicism, was moved by the piece. His corneas held a pinkish tinge, while the barest hint of moisture glistened at the corners of his eyes.

In this strange, foreign place, I imagine that the flutist's words were like a feast after a month of thin gruel.

As the final notes of her last song faded away, I saw Wilem's chest hitch a moment, before he brought his hands together in a thunderous show of applause. He was far from the only one, as her response from the Eolian's crowd was more than enthusiastic. As he clapped, I leaned over towards him.

"For goodness sake, Wil; go buy her a drink!"

"You…you think I should?" he asked, sounding uncertain.

"Yes, and soon," I urged. "If you wait much longer, the scutten is going to catch up with you and do your talking. Do you want that?"

"No, I don't," he answered, rising to his feet. "Wish me luck."

The three of us did as instructed, wishing him well. Despite having drunk the most of any of my companions, his gait was steady as he made his way over to the flutist. At Wil's first words, her eyes seemed to light up, delighted at hearing familiar words. In no time they had found their way over to their own table, each with a glass of scutten in front of them.

"It appears out Cealdish friend has moved onto greener pastures," noted Sim with wistfulness.

"Can you blame him?" I said with a shrug, earning a shake of his head from Simmon, sending his sandy hair aflutter.

"Absolutely not. To Wil's success!" he cheered, raising a half-full mug of his favored cinnamon mead. Sovoy and myself seconded the motion as the lights dimmed again. A fiddler with his silver talent piped took the stage. He was followed by Count Therpe, who took his place to raucous applause.

I found myself laughing along the Eolian's patrons as the Count plucked at his lyre, his cracked and wavering voice pounding out verses about a local councilman of dubious repute. His song concluded to thunderous praise, with even the reserved nobles stomping their feet and banging upon the mezzanine tables. Stanchion went on stage to congratulate him on his latest barb of the Imre gentry, taking him down to the bar for the standard tankard of metheglin.

In the break between the next performance, I made my way over to the bar. It didn't take long to make my way through the sea of well-wishers, to where the Count had wasted no time in draining his tankard. He perked up at my appearance, waving me over.

"I'd hate to get between a man and his metheglin, but wanted to congratulate you before the heavy drinking commences."

"Nonesense!" exclaimed Therpe. He drained the rest of the tankard with a single, deep swallow, before setting it down and shaking my hand with vigor. "Drinks will always here, but talented musicians come and go. To squander a chance to converse with one is a terrible waste of an opportunity."

"In that case, let's grab a table, and another tankard for yourself."

"I won't hear of it," he argued.

"You should. I'm running a fine scam over at the University, and it'd be a shame to keep the fruits of my villianry to myself."

The Count let out a hearty bray of laughter. "In that case, I'll take another metheglin."

I got his drink from the bar, along with a cider for myself. A tankard and a mug in hand, I made my way over to the table Count Therpe had procured. At the aroma of the warm cider, he let out a grin.

"Keeping your senses clear for a performance tonight, I hope?"

I responded with an affirmative nod. "Until then, cider it will be."

"Ah, completely understandable. After that, I take it you'd be open to generousity?"

"I believe so."

"That is good to hear, then. Any idea which song shall graces these hallowed halls?"

I thought about the answer for a moment. As much as I consider music to be a source of enjoyment, most of my trips to the Eolian, sad to say, were often with financial interests in mind. Fear of defaulting on Devi's loan brought me here in the first place. Pursuit of a patron and appealing to the sensibilities of other musicians to provide souten had brought me back, the singular goal of survival at the University always at the forefront of mind.

This was one of the first times in memory where I had brought my lute to the Eolian with the express intent to play only for myself.

"That would ruin the surprise," I answered after a brief pause. Therpe was not put out by my answer in the slightest, opting to take another deep drink from the tankard.

"In a week, I am entertaining a contingent of foreign nobles at my home. If available, I would be honored to have you serenade us."

I felt my grin widen at his words. Therpe had left it unspoken, but there was a strong probability the guest list may have names outside the radius of Ambrose's influence.

"The honor would be entirely mine. I wouldn't be putting out any of your musicians though, would I?"

The Count waved a hand in the air, dismissing the notion. "For the next month they'll be scattered to the Four Corners, leaving me bereft of musical talent. With guests to entertain, this puts me in quite the predictament."

"In that case, I would be delighted."

"Good to hear," the Count said, favoring me with a hearty slap on the back. He then leaned towards me, in a secretive manner. "I also have new information about a subject we spoke of before."

Denna's patron. It had to be.

"I look forward to hearing it," I answered, in my mind replaying the promise I had made Denna. I had asked for Count Therpe's help with finding Master Ash long before I swore on my name, so I was still within the bounds of my oath, however barely.

I glanced back over to the table where Sim and Sovoy were seated, to see that they had been joined by the two lovely ladies that had caught my eye earlier. Sovoy caught me looking, and waved me over.

"It would appear I'm being summoned," I told the Count, motioning toward the table.

The Imre noble let out a chuckle. "Woe be the man who would stand in the way of young dalliance. Best of luck to you, Kvothe, and should our paths not cross in the interim, I shall see you in two spans."

I made my farewells with the Count, before heading back over to my table.

The blonde was seated next to Sovoy. Her friend, a chestnut-haired young woman wearing a strapless pink dress, showing our pale, creamy shoulders with a light dusting of freckles, sat in the spot vacated by Wilem.

"Ladies, this is our other friend, Kvothe. A finer musician will not walk through the doors of the Eolian tonight."

"And what of other nights?" asked the brunette with a mischievous grin, stretching out her hand expectantly. I accepted her offering, before taking a half-step backwards and bowing, placing a light kiss the soft flesh of the back of her hand.

"On other nights, the discrepancy is even more pronounced. I am at your service, my lady."

"My lady?" she said with a light chuckle. "Not only a musician, but a gentleman as well. If you are truly in my service, I would have you call me Merys."

"Then Merys you shall be," I agreed, taking a seat next to the young woman. A silver necklace set with amethyst hung around her neck, trailing down to the generous curve of her chest. It caught the gentle glow of the sympathy lamps, making her skin glow.

"And this here is Joslyn," introduced Sovoy, motioning towards the girl seated beside him. Abandoning any resemblance to pretense, Joslyn stuck her hand across the table. I met it with my own, pumping it once before letting go.

"Pleased to meet you, my lady."

Joslyn let out a chuckle. "Please, call me Joslyn. No self-respecting lady would find herself at a den of sin and vice such as this. My goodness, perish the thought!"

"So, Kvothe…what musician does the finest musician at the Eolian favor?"

"That would be the lute," I answered, drawing the case up from beneath my seat.

"And what song will you be gracing us with tonight?"

A look of dismay found its way onto my face. "Would you ruin the surprise so easily? Is not half of the joy in discovery?"

Undeterred by my act, Merys leaned closer. She let out a small, devilish smile as she placed her right hand on my chest. "I cannot deny that discovery brings its own joys," she admitted, trailing her fingers down a few inches, before drawing her hand back and taking a drink from my mug of cider. Surprised by its contents, she sent me a questioning gaze.

"One needs a clear head to perform."

"To perform a song that won't get you kicked out of here," Sim added, drawing a few chuckles from the two girls.

"A very important distinction," I agreed. "After my performance, however, my choice of drink is liable to change. Perhaps then I could buy you two ladies a drink?"

"Perhaps you could," parroted Merys with a wicked smile, the type that speaks to men on a primal level. "What do you think, Joslyn?"

"I don't know," she replied, casting her eyes and head downward as she fought off a grin.

"It would please my greatly if you answered in the positive," Sovoy urged. Joslyn lifted her head up, an agreement on her lips, before she froze, the playfulness fading from her gaze. I followed her gaze across the Eolian, to where a familiar Vintish noble stood seething, like a child who has found someone else playing with his toys.

"Merys, we should be going," urged Joslyn. Her friend let out a deep sigh.

"I suppose so," Merys agreed, beginning to rise to her feet. I followed her up.

"Ambrose is the very picture of villianry. If you need help…"

The brunette let out a casual chuckle. "No worries, Kvothe. He may have invited me here, but I am not beholden to him." As she rose to her feet, she leaned forward slightly, putting her lips close to my ear. "Find me later."

As her whisper faded away, she curtsied, before taking her leave of the table, with Joslyn trailing behind her. As Merys approached, Ambrose settled his angry gaze upon me. For a few seconds he glared, unblinking, before stiffly taking Merys' extended arm and leading her up the mezzanine. Joslyn fell in line with one of the members of Ambrose's entourage; a tall, thin youth with a pinched face and a ridiculously looking monocle.

"Did you just manage to nearly steal Ambrose's date?" Sim asked with awe, once the two girls had disappeared from sight.

I let out a laugh in response. "Nearly? Please, the night is young."

For a moment, Sovoy opened his mouth, as if to reprimand me, before opting for a shrug and taking another pull from his glass of blackberry brand. "It does seem a shame that men of such poor quality are inflicted upon such lovely ladies. Why, wouldn't it be an act of chivalry to steal them away from such vile cunts?"

"Too right you are," I agreed, before bending down and withdrawing my lute case from beneath the chair. "And now it is time to burn."

"Not Sir Savien, I hope?" ventured Sim.

"The furthest thing from it," I assured.

X-X-X-X-X-X

The crowd grew quiet as I took the stage, scattered whispers the only sound. Setting the case down, I unlatched it and withdrew my lute. There was no fear, no apprehension about my upcoming performance. I'm a stone at the bottom of a still lake.

I fingered a few notes, sampling their sounds. They were almost there, but I turn two of the pegs a fraction of a hair, tightening them to perfection.

The lights are upon me, as are a sea of faces. The young, the old. The gentry, the commoner. Male, female. To each of them I flash a welcoming smile, drawing them in. I am their guide to a world hiding inside our own, just barely out of reach. Of wonders mistaken for myth.

I began to lightly pluck at the strings, making the opening notes of 'In Twilight Versed'. The murmurs of recognition are few and far between. Doubtless some have heard it on their travels, but to Imre it was new.

My voice joined the narrative, speaking Felurian's song. The sounds of the fae pulled the audience even deeper into my story, and they ran beside me as I chased Felurian through the woods. They watched as I danced with her, as we made our own sweet music. As I held her song hostage, and promised that one day I would return to finish it.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Cheers, clapping and the stomping of feet followed me from the stage, to where Stanchion stood before the stage. With his round face and gleeful eyes, the owner of the Eolian gave off a distinctly boyish veneer as he shook my hand with vigor.

"Was that perhaps an original composition?" he asked, sliding a tankard of metheglin towards me. I nodded as I took a deep drink of the wonderfully exotic brew. "And what have you titled it?"

"In Twilight Versed," I answered with a grimace. Stanchion's grin faded a bit at my words, drawing a chuckle from me.

"I admit it's a dreadful title." Even saying it aloud brought a bitter taste to my mouth, but I had been unable to form anything more befitting.

"It is, but then again, everything requires a name. Especially a song that's bound to spread across the Four Corners like wildfire."

I nodded, having observed the same thing myself. After playing it, I had seen many people humming to themselves hours later, unable to get it out of their head. It wasn't the best, or most technically accomplished of my compositions…but it was among the catchiest.

"Is any of it true?"

I smiled slyly. "Being a connoisseur of music yourself, wouldn't you agree that all songs contain some element of truth?"

"Indeed they do," agreed Stanchion. "Perhaps one day you'll allow me to buy you a drink and tell me about the circumstances which inspired the song."

"I hope you do one day," I replied, which was enough to satisfy Stanchion. Pleased, he excused himself to prepare for the next performance. As I savored the contents of my tankard, a steady stream of well-wishers made their way to the bar, each wanting to either buy me a drink, hear more about the song, or in some cases, both. My answers were polite, but elusive. Though I provided little insight, my manner prevented anyone from walking away feeling as if they had been slighted.

Draining my first tankard, I took the second, paid for with a grateful patron's coin, back to my table. As I held the drink high, out of the range of an errant elbow or wave of the hand, I saw her climbing the stairs to the balcony with straight-backed, regal grace. She wore a blue dress which proudly displayed her bare, creamy shoulders. Her dark tresses were held in place, the six braids formed together to form a single word.

Lovely. How well it fit Denna.

I hesitated for a moment, before following her up the stairs. If I had known she was in the building, I would have reconsidered my choice of song. Had she taken its performance as an insult?

After the barest of hesitations, I followed her up the stairs, a dozen risers behind. Gaining the top, she turned on her heel. Denna's dark eyes were severe, her face a mask. I suppressed my initial urge to freeze and closed the distance between us. The unease vanished from Denna's expression, replaced by a knowing smile.

"Do you make a habit of following young women?"

"Only those who are worthy of pursuit," I answered, dropping smoothly to one knee and placing a chaste kiss atop her offered hand. "My lady, I am at your service."

"And have been for some time, if your first introduction was any indication."

"Always, my lady," I said, rising to my feet, but inclining my head in deference. "I do, however, hope that you require the services of my company tonight."

"If the chatter from up here is to be believed, I would be one of many seeking your services. Is that what you would take me for, Kvothe? One of many?"

It appeared that news of Ambrose's date seeking me out had spread throughout the Eolian. Only a scant number of exchanges, and already Denna was lobbing verbal barbs in my direction. Not the scene my foolishly optimistic self had envisioned unfolding.

"Such an open-ended question," I observed. "Should I flatter you endlessly, perform a soliloquy extolling the virtues of your beauty above all other mortal women? Perform an ode to your razor-sharp wit? Hold a mirror up to the world, show its reflection to you and outline how nothing quite compares to you?"

"So I take it mortal women pale in comparison to others?"

Her cold, cutting question removed all doubt that she had heard the song. She was asking about Felurian, all while not asking, a game I had no intention of playing. I had nothing to say on the subject to Denna. Yes, I still thought of her often, cared about her deeply…but I would have been an even larger fool to deny the existence of the wide gulf between us, a bridge that we couldn't cross. Ever since that blackened song…as much as I wanted to stay anger at her, it was hard to dump the responsibility onto her doorstep. As far as she knew, Lanre was a hero. Furthermore, how could she have possibly known that I had first-hand experience with the Chandrian?

"To the vast majority, yes," I answered, meeting her challenge. "Though there are others that outshine even the myths of old."

"Do they now?" she asked, her frosty exterior thawing slightly. Inwardly I smiled at her reaction, thinking that perhaps it wasn't too late to start bridging the gap.

Hearing the approach of heavy, deliberate footsteps, I turned to see my least favorite member of the Arcnaum saunter over as if he owned half the world, and was settling papers for the rest.

"Are you lost?" Ambrose asked in condescending tones, like I was a child who had wandered off. "This is the balcony, reserved for Eolain patrons that can afford to come here. I believe charity cases are contained to the floor."

The Vintic noble had clearly been drinking, as suggested by the slight pauses between his words. Even on a normal day, Ambrose had trouble keeping up with me in our wars of words. Tonight I doubted he'd pose any challenge.

"I am a charity case," I agreed, before pointing to the silver talent pipes pinned to my lapel. "In fact, unlike you, I don't even have to pay to perform here. But…it's awfully kind of you to keep supporting the Eolian with a silver talent every time you want to play. Generous, even."

Around us people had looked up from their drinks and conversation, watching our exchange. At my statement, they broke into open chuckles, causing Ambrose's eyes to narrow. I imagine it must have been galling for him to be laughed at by whom he considered 'his' people. Even Denna let out a wide smile, drawing the ire of his glare.

"Ambrose, perhaps you should leave this one alone," she gently suggested, placing a hand on his shoulder. He gazed at the pale hand upon his shoulder, the blue stone in her ring gleaming in the lamplight, before his gaze turned back to me. His expression flared up, and with a snarl he brushed her hand away.

"When I want a whore to touch me, I'll visit a brothel," he sneered. I started forward at once, but Denna's hand was already in motion. A sharp crack echoed through the balcony as her open hand slammed into the side of Ambrose's face. Unprepared for the blow, he stumbled backwards.

Being a vindictive soul, I subtly stuck out my foot. Already off-balance, he fell backwards, his shoulders colliding with a table loaded with drinks, bringing it down with him. As he hit the floor, the glasses, mugs and tankards spilled their contents directly onto Ambrose's expensive clothes and cloak. The sweet aromas of blackberry brand, cinnamon mead, metheglin, scutten and strawberry wine infused the air.

Alcohol soaking through his clothes, Ambrose scrambled up to a sitting position, to hear the first ripples of cruel laughter echo through the balcony. His face turned bright red as the laughter increased in volume. Three of his friends rushed forward, helping him off the ground. His eyes burned with intense hatred, but he stayed silent as they led him away from the downed table.

As whispers flicked back and forth across the balcony, Denna turned to me, trying to hide a smile.

"Why did you do that?" she hissed.

"Do what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "He insulted you in a fashion unbecoming of a gentleman, so you slapped him. Happens all the time. Being drunk, he lost his balance and fell over. End of story."

Denna shook her head, before heading back towards the stairs. I caught up to her at the bottom.

"You certainly have a knack for mayhem," she said as she turned, blowing out a breath of frustrated of air.

"Can you honestly tell me you didn't enjoy seeing that arrogant twit get taken down a notch?"

"Perhaps a little," she conceded with a small smile. "But I'll not stay here to celebrate."

"Then stay and celebrate my recent academic achievement."

She tapped her foot against the floor for a moment, as if actually considering it. After a moment of deliberation, she shook her head.

"It would be better if I left now, as staying could give off the wrong impression."

I perceived the unsaid meaning behind her words. If she stayed to celebrate, the Imre gentry would not soon forget Denna's action, but if I stayed at the Eolian, it would be me they remembered as celebrating Ambrose's folly.

"Perhaps another day, then," I conceded.

"Perhaps," she replied, her red lips stretched into a genuine smile; a work of art I had seen precious little of since returning from my journey. She stretched her hands out, and I met the back of it with my lips. We exchanged farewells, and the familiar tension seemed to be mercifully hidden.

I watched her leave, before making my way back to my table. Now that I had played, it was time to start drinking in earnest.

X-X-X-X-X-X

It did not take long to lose track of my alcohol intake. Well-wishers, fellow musicians and those who just wanted to congratulate me on my humiliation of embarrassing Ambrose in such spectacular fashion kept a steady flow of drinks headed towards my table. At first I sampled each drinks, but after the first few I ceased my inspections, instead opting to throw them back without discretion.

"Kvothe, you have to slow down," urged Fela, placing a hand upon my arm. She had arrived not longer after Denna's departure, and even longer after all traces of sobriety had left Sim.

I let out an inebriated chuckle. "Perhaps you're right, but wouldn't it be terribly impolite to turn aside the generosity of this fine establishment's patrons?"

"To generosity!" cheered Sim in a drunken slur. He banged his glass against the tabletop, spilling some of the blackberry brand onto his hand. Fela let out an aggravated sigh, before reaching over and plucking the glass from his fingers. Sim didn't seem to notice, as he brought his hand, which cupped nothing more substantial than air, to his lips. When no drink was forthcoming, his slightly unfocused gaze fixed upon his empty hand, as if he knew that _something_ was wrong, but couldn't quite place what it was.

"Having a problem, Sim?" I asked with a laugh.

"Uh…no," he said. "I just seem to have misplaced my drink."

"Did you now?" Fela asked innocently.

"Good thing there's an endless supply tonight," he pointed out with more confidence, before raising a hand to flag a server. With infinite patience, Fela clasped his hand and brought it back down to the table. "What?"

"Perhaps you've had enough for tonight."

"But Kvothe promised…" Sim trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"Sim, do you remember the time you threw up all over that horse?" I asked, leaning forward.

"I…I vaguely remember something of the sort," he admitted after a short pause.

I nodded, before lifting up my hand and holding my thumb and index finger an inch apart.

"You are _this _close to that point. One more drink might send you tumbling over the edge."

"Hmmm. Perhaps I should slow down," Sim conceded, draping his other hand across the table. At once, his eyelids began to droop. His head, becoming similarly heavy, gently floated down to the table, resting atop his biceps. Eyes closed, Sim's chest began to rise and fall in a rhythmic pattern.

"Looks like our little Sim is all tuckered out," I observed.

"A state which I blame squarely upon you," said Fela.

"He's seen far poorer states."

"Not since I've known him."

With the hand not on my tankard, I reached across the table, putting a hand on Fela's arm. "That is not a coincidence. It's because of you."

"It's my fault you've provided him the means to get blackly drunk?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, that's not what I mean," I clarified with a shake of my head. Since beginning his relationship with Fela, the steady pattern of rejection and failed relationships came to an end, along with the crushing dejection that swiftly followed. "When he's with you, he doesn't have a reason to drink to excess, tonight's celebratory night excluded."

At my words, Fela turned towards her significant other. Love shone in her eyes as she held him in her gaze. Any man on the receiving end of such a glance should count themselves blessed. Despite his state of drunken stupor, I knew that Sim did truly appreciate what Fela and himself shared.

A familiar pressure beginning to mount in my bladder, I excused myself from the table. My world swam for a moment as I rose, but I rode out the storm for a few moments, and equilibrium returned. I threaded my way thought the crowds of the Eolian, searching for Wilem and Sovoy. I hadn't seen the former for a while, leading me to believe that his introduction to the flutist had gone smashingly, but I had no clue where Sovoy was.

As one who has traveled to nearly every part of the Four Corners, there are benefits and drawbacks to city living. Among the most underrated aspect of modern technology was the luxury of bathrooms with running water. Especially when drunk, where the threat of falling into the lime-lined hole within a poorly-maintained outhouse was a distinct possibility.

The Eolian, being a fine establishment at the heart of civilization, held no such threat.

I ducked into the bathroom. The roar of drunken revelry and gleeful laughter faded as I shut the door. It was lit by the light of yellow sympathy lamps, casting a delicate pale glow over the tile floor and polished wood. There were two porcelain basins for washing hands to my immediate left, while further into the bathroom were three wooden stalls. Two were occupied, so I entered the third, the furthest from the door and raised the urine-splashed toilet seat, thankful I had no need to sit.

As I stood, doing the necessary, I heard the bathroom door open, letting in a momentary burst of the lobby's festive atmosphere. Finishing, I pulled the cord hanging next to the seat. The contents of the bowl were sucked down the pipe, before being filled with fresh water from the wall-mounted stone tank.

I took a deep, calming breath before leaving the stall behind. Though I had been hitting the alcohol with reckless abandon, my thoughts were still coherent, despite the fuzziness at the edges of my consciousness.

From the front of the bathroom I heard a deep, hacking cough, loud enough to echo in the enclosed space. It was a poor act, all throat, speaking nothing of sickness. A troupe comprised of stonemasons could have held a rendition of _Three Pennies for Wishing_ and been more convincing.

I gave no outward sign that anything was amiss, heading towards the exit with my head held high. There was someone at one of the wash basins, with his back to me, but I paid him little heed. Washing my hands would have to wait.

Ten feet from the door, it opened. A member of Ambrose's entourage sauntered through, fresh, crisp silks whispering as he moved.

"If it isn't the ravel bastard," he spat in a refined, elitist tone, one pale eye narrowed in dislike, the other hidden by a monocle which shone in the pale yellow light. As he spoke, I heard the two stall doors fly open behind me, while seeing the barest hints of movement to my right. I backpedaled before stepping to the left, feeling the brush of wind on my cheek as I avoided a punch. Several steps later, and the basin pressed up against my back, leaving no more room to retreat.

I was on the receiving end of four pairs of hostile eyes. Each and every one of them, with the expensive cut of their clothes, spoke of privilege and nobility.

"Four against one? Not very sporting," I pointed out, trying to stall for more time.

"Nor is stealing other men's dates," the one with the monocle answered, a petulant smirk upon his face. Of the four, he seemed the only with a personal vendetta, a vexing development that caused me to curse inwardly. If it was just him and myself, I might have been able to incite the one with the monacle into a dumb charge, but the other three didn't seem to have much of a personal stake in this affair, and would be far more difficult to goad.

"They came to us. I guess you didn't make for good company," I answered, considering trying to let out a scream of warning, before discarding the notion. With how loud the floor of the Eolian was, and how quickly the sound cut out when the door was closed, it'd be a waste of valuable breath.

The confident grin upon monocle man's face soured. "Get him!"

One of the nobles who emerged from the stalls, who wore a powder-blue vest over his crisp white shirt, reacted first, rushing forward with his fist raised. I twisted my upper body, avoiding the punch. Before my assailant could react, I slid around to his side, and grabbed the back of his head, using his forward momentum to drive him face-first into the mirror. Letting go, I started to turn, before I was tackled from behind, forcing my stomach painfully into the wash basin. I threw out my left arm, using it to cushion my face against the spider-webbed mirror. Pain lit across my arm as the shards cut into my flesh, but better it than my eyes. Strong arms wrapped me up from behind in a reverse bear-hug, forcing my arms to the side.

"I've got him!" a voice at my ear cried triumphantly, the yell driving a spike of pain through my head. Gritting my teeth, I braced my feet against the wall and pushed off as hard as I could. My captor stumbled backwards, before tripping. The back of his head collided with the ceramic floor with a crack, causing the arms wrapped around me to loosen, as another of Ambrose's boot-lickers hovered above me, an apprehensive look upon his face.

I kicked out with my heel, trying to break his instep, but missed, hitting the inside of his leg. He stumbled back a few paces, and I used the opportunity to roll to the right, under the small gap between the first stall and the floor. Inside the stall, I scrambled to my feet, throwing the door's latch moments before a heavy weight struck the other side, causing it to shudder violently.

Thinking furiously, my eyes swept the stall. I had knocked down two of my assailants, but there was no guarantee that they'd stay down. On the ground, a broken piece of mirror gleamed as it caught the lamplight. At once I knelt down, scooping up the crystal shard, before dragging the flat against one my arm's lacerations, smearing blood onto it.

Rage lit my mind as I muttered a quick binding. They had waited until I had drunk a healthy amount, and had planned to beat a defenseless person black and blue. Unluckily for them, they had underestimated my constitution, and would pay the price.

A second away from crushing the glass beneath my foot, the rational part of my mind objected. Even if it was in self-defense, malfeasance of any sort was a certain way for the University to expel me, especially with my poor track record. Had this been Ambrose's plan all along?

Another blow struck the door, accompanied by the sound of splintering wood. I turned and thrust the hand holding the shard of mirror into the bowl, splitting my mind into two pieces. As I did, the door flew inward, just barely missing my crouched form. I looked over my shoulder as the noble started forward, fists raised.

A surprised scream lit into the air as the cool water surrounding my submerged hand turned warm as the shard of glass shed its heat. My oncoming assailant's head darted to the side as his companion's startled cry, giving me all the time I needed. I twisted my body and launched a kick into his midsection, connecting squarely with my heel. He folded at the midsection with a wheeze, and I brought my knee up to his exposed face, breaking his nose with a wet crunch. Eyes unfocused, he flopped backwards onto his back, small rivulets of blood seeping from his smashed nose.

I stepped past him, to where monocle man was down on one knee, clutching his eye with both hands. He looked up at my approach, his uncovered pale eye regarding me with equal parts fear and hatred.

"You ruined-" was all he got out before my kick connected with the side of his head, driving him into the ground. All things considered, he was lucky. Instead of having an eye full of shattered glass, he only had cold burn around his eye socket. His cry of surprise was not only more of shock than pain, but he'd have difficulty pinning a charge of malfeasance against me with not visible wounds.

I glanced to my right, to see two remaining combatants. One still lay on his back, eyes closed, a small puddle of blood pooling around his head. The other, his face bearing several bleeding lacerations, looked at me with wide-eyes fear, holding his hands out in a placating manner.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please, just let me go!"

"I could kill you with a thought," I said in my best Taborlin the Great voice, "But it'd be a waste of effort." He trembled as I pointed towards his fallen cohort. "You will fetch a doctor for your friend, and then be on your way, never to return to this place. Am I understood?"

The young man in question nodded with such enthusiasm that he probably displaced several vertebrae. Without further words I turned heel and calmly exited the bathroom, back into the roar of the late-night festivities. I tucked my arm against my body, hiding the bloody punctures.

After all, I had a myth to uphold.

X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes:

Well, my update schedule is but a ghost. This chapter took a long time to complete, and I haven't even started on the next one. Might be a month before it surfaces, a lot of huge events in my life are on the horizon, and will leave me with little free time.

Thanks to The DarIm and rand32085 for their help on the chapter. Any remaining mistakes are my fault. Also thanks to Gambit for his suggestions.

Praise, criticisms, or corrections? Feel free to drop me a review. If it's a signed one, I'll even reply.

Thanks for reading.


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